Perfecta

[desperance]

Oh, and I have a cold. Possibly. Something, anyway. I feel ungood, and I spent last night in that lovely state where I could only breathe lying on my back and I can't sleep lying on my back. Which leads to happy cats, of course (they only really like sitting on my chest; the hip compromise is manageable but unsatisfactory, and the back won't do at all), but washed-out and headachey Chaz.

This journal will now stop whining. Even I am bored with it, and you know how much I love to fuss and pity me. I'm off to the Lit & Phil, where I shall read about tannic acid and discover that I am not after all stuck in mid-novel, but poised to make progress at last. *nods*