I'm not consistent. It depends on whether conditions are right; if I'm desperate for something that I can rely on to be just what I need, if I'm about to get on a plane for five hours, etc. I'd definitely count paying $14+ for a new trade paperback, or $8.99 for mass-market too. Authors who've made the list at least once in the last few years: Lee Child, Lawrence Block, Reginald Hill, Minette Walters, Val McDermid, Peter Robinson, Giles Blunt, Denise Mina, Ruth Rendell, J.K. Rowling, John Morgan Wilson, Ann Rule. Short list, really. I'll bet some of you have long ones. *pokes*
After waking myself and my upstairs neighbors at four a.m. by sitting up and yelling "Mom!" in pathetic desperation, I retired to the couch. Things got weird again after I drifted back off, but I've pretty much blocked it out. This continues a recent trend of nightmares and disturbances.
I also continue to inhabit an emotional dead zone. Or I'm skating close to the edge. Sometimes lately when it comes to taking my pills I find myself indifferently missing a day, like yesterday. I guess I'm just unconvinced they're doing anything for me right now. Everything's back to being flat and dull, clouded by bad thoughts and fatalism. Some days are worse than others. Sometimes, lately, I can barely move myself around or out of the apartment. Other days I put on a more convincing show of life. But I'm not doing so well. Weekends I retreat under the furniture. If you stick your hand down there, a paw will swipe out at you blindly.
I know it's time to see the doctor again before things get worse. But it's like the very air gets sticky around me and holds me inert and stupid when I feel like this. I have to try and make an appointment though.