~Your face is leaking.
~Parts of your back hurt that you never even knew existed. (Are those actually internal organs? Maybe.)
~One minute you are throwing open windows and stripping to a tank top, and the next you are wearing two sweaters, socks and sweatpants, curled up in bed under the Extra Blanket.
~Your brain's processing power is so feeble that you find yourself watching "Bolt" on your computer. (Thanks, Netflix!)
~Your go-to meal is toast, toast, and more toast.
On the other hand, being ill offers up a great reserve of time in which to read all those books you have laying next to your bed. i just finished reading Logicomix, wherein i learned a great deal about Bertrand Russell (and logic/math in general), through the über-accessible vehicle of the graphic novel. Also interesting has been Oliver Sacks' An Anthropologist On Mars, where i've just heard the tale of the man who was in a traffic accident and afterward became (completely!) colorblind, seeing the world in only shades of black and white (and grey). Ugh! If you think that sounds nice, well– you're mistaken. Just check out his offering of fruits, all pieces of which he has painted grey. Try and salivate over that leaden orange. No really, go ahead! To make matters worse, this man was a painter and could no longer enjoy his craft, or the works of others (unless they were black-and-white photographs, which remained unaffected). He even noted a distinction in tone between black-and-white TV and color TV with the color turned all the way down.
Also reading There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbor's Baby: Scary Fairy Tales, by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya. Bone-scraping stuff. Real, and harsh. Much less magical than, say, Angela Carter. More bleak and numbing. But good.
Listening to older Animal Collective and newer PJ Harvey. One is emotional, palliative, and jubilant, while the other is rough and unsettling. Actually, they both are all of those things.
Off to tea and... well, toast.
(cooty)kisses,
``h
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