I have a cold.My movements are exaggerated and childlike, and though the house is empty, I find myself talking to myself. Now this is a normal occurrence, particularly when I'm plotting out a new arch for my book, but this is different.
Instead of just pressing "pause" on the remote, I feel the need to say the word as well. As if the mere utterance of my intention will make the effect more...effective.
And no, I'm not high on cold medicine. It's yucky, and I don't want to take it.
Yes, I am in fact a four year old when I'm sick.
Needless to say, my plan to spend the vast majority of this morning and early afternoon writing just isn't happening. I don't have the mental clarity to do dishes, let alone write my book.
Work is, no doubt, going to be interesting this evening.
November is, in my opinion, the worst time ever to fall ill. Not only is November a rather insane month for retail, but it's also NaNoWriMo. And I am something like 15,000 words behind on my count already. I don't have the time for this.
Dear Cold,
Please come back in a more opportune month. Like...never.
No love,
Kelly
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