The internet is for porn. No, it's for cats. No, it's for repining...

It's depressing, how tempting it is to use a blog just for complaining about the vicissitudes of life/the world/health/wealth/other people. How easy it can be to use it for nothing else. I've not been feeling good since yesterday afternoon; not sick exactly, just sooo tired I actually dozed off on the sofa (I am not a napper ordinarily: I dislike going to sleep in the daytime and I hate waking up, so it's kind of contraindicated) and then I let Karen preempt me with a pizza for dinner although we had a guest.

And today... Well. I'm still not sick, exactly - I have no symptoms to offer - but I have no energy either. All I want to do is lie on the sofa and hope not to sleep again. Except that here I am blogging about it, so clearly I wanted to do that too, I had to tell the world I feel rotten. Presumably the eliciting of unphysical sympathy is somehow expected to make me feel better?

But! We will have no repining here. Mac is quite determined. He brought me his catnip mousie. When that failed to cheer me up, he went away and came back with his other catnip mousie. (It is possible that the kind soul who brought the mousies thought "here you are, boys, one each." Hah! All yr mousies r belong to Mac.) In a little while I shall haul my worldweary carcase (quick US poll: carcase, or carcass?) round to Lucky's and buy groceries, when I've figured out what to cook. I have cold pork. What should I cook?

All senses of security are false

Hah. I knew that spirit of helpful-mousie-bringing wouldn't last. I abandoned the sofa and came through here to say "Aww, Mac shared his mousies" - and went back to find this.



Which left me only the recliner, which I don't fit on so well or so comfortably. Nevertheless, I am still declaring this a sick day. I am still without symptom, but I can barely drag my weary husk from one room to the other. I shall force leftovers down my uninterested throat, and gaze vaguely at a book, and wait for a vicissitude. Something's got to give.

Barry finds work for idle hands

He was in the window, watching the street (guard-cat!); but he happened to glance over his shoulder and see me sitting here, not typing. So he came over to address the issue, as hands not actively otherwise involved should obviously be scritching cat. Now he's slumped all over my knees, purring unusually. I think one of us is melting.

His timing, as usual, is immaculately awful. I had written, oh, half a sentence; and was just wondering if a hot toddy would make me feel better although I do not have a cold. Was meaning to rise, to depart this place, to test that theorem. But now I have a cat puddled in my lap, and am stuck here until he decides I am inferior to somewhere else. Sooner or later, he'll prefer my clean laundry or provocatively-close-to-Mac or wherever I've decided I'd rather be myself. It's how best I know myself and my own mind, by following the workings of his.