April 20th, 2003


me, my bed, and I.

Am feeling under the weather. Deeply tired and run down, throat sore. Can't stay home from work as I have a must-meet with my manager at 8 fucking a.m. Monday morning, which I also at some point have to do an hour or two of work to prepare for.

::stares dully at clock, thinks, yeah right::

My own fault for not doing it on Friday, totally and unquestionably, and fuck-meably.

My other remaining goal is laundry. At this point will be grateful if I manage one load. Was supposed to get together with A. but haven't heard from her and suspect that we are both blowing it off. (Waves weakly to A.) Suspect we both forget it was Easter. Or perhaps just underestimated our deep reluctance to surface from the Weekend Bed Linens Of Deep Sloth. At this moment, we're probably both sleepy-eyed and on the verge of burrowing back into some wood shavings like a couple of exhausted Guinea pigs.

Guinea pigs are funny.

During recent nap dreamed of terribly urgent and important things I knew I needed to remember to do on waking--editing a story being one of them, I think. Have managed to gently touch my thumb to the eyeball of reality and convince myself that no, I in fact had no such things on my to-do list. Just that one little bit of work-work. And laundry. Even taping the pre-empted Buffy may simply fall by the wayside, as I have something on tape, and the idea of figuring out the exact show time, lifting my feeble hand with a videocassette tape toward the VCR slot, turning on the TV, etc, seems very overwhelming right now.

As does my pathetically OCD need to create a small 70-percent width HR tag to close off this post, but I will do it anyway.