For days now it’s felt like I’ve got potstickers in my neck. A nice excuse for a hot toddy, anyway. I’ve been in this arm wrestling elbow lock with whatever-it-is since Friday. Half sick, half well.
I had to convince my mother not to mail me over-the-counter drugs (an action I think might be illegal anyway). I reminded her we have pharmacies here. And doctors. The French, like, invented x-rays and stuff.
They are sending kitty pictures. Those are very good medicines, yes.
I need to stop writing short stories for a while so I can finish my book, but I’m driven to write “Though Thy Lips Are Pale.” As I write it, I think about all those towering literary awards that frown down at writers, one foot raised up over the wee head of a scribe like me. Symbolically, the story is a little bit about them, and more.
Time soon for bed. And more hot lemon honey kirsch water.