Damn, I hate the annoyance of a cold more than anything. I’m not sick enough to actually be a baby about it, but sick enough that it’s strenuous to do anything that involves thinking or movement. The most I’ve been able to successfully accomplish is using my right hand to point and click repeatedly. But not motivated enough to answer email. I got out my laptop, thought about writing a few pages, and then found myself immediately downstairs procrastinating again. I got out a book and grabbed a blanket, ready to read until I fell asleep, but instead decided to lean sideways on this chair (why am I sideways? So that I can be as non-committal to the fact that I’m obviously procrastinating getting better, I guess. I have no idea how I ended up in this position, which kind of hurts my side, but that’s how I am right now and I’ve written sentences about it without rectifying the situation, so whatever). Why can’t I just go upstairs and write a few pages? I’ll feel better when I’m done. Why won’t I just go up and do that? I have no idea.
I have to get my guilt level up higher, I guess. Right now I’m feeling too sorry for myself, with my aching chest and irritated throat. I am too busy making loud hacking noises and pathetic stuffy-nosed moans to sit still and read. I’m in this halfway living place where I’m pretty much…
This is what it feels like to be a cat. I’m wandering from room to room, occasionally rubbing up against stee, begging for attention, and then I eat a little, drink a little water, mope around and whine. And then I fall asleep in weird places and sit in uncomfortable-looking positions. I’m one hairball away from felinitude.