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14 Hours Didn't Help
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Heather's under the weather, and has been since she got back from the convention. I got a sore throat on Wednesday, but it was my day off, so it didn't matter. Yesterday I felt worse, but went into work anyway because I had visions of piles of paper rising to the ceiling, and lo, there were indeed such piles. So I plowed through a bunch of work and then came home early. Heather stayed home sick yesterday, too. Somebody at the convention gave us colds, and all the air travel and late nights wrecked our immune systems. Not an unpredictable outcome, but annoying. We've got too much to do to be sick! Flytraps to send out! Novels to write! Stories to revise and submit! A car to get smog-checked!

Anyway, I foolishly thought that sleeping for 14 hours straight would fix me, but it didn't. Woke up this morning feeling as bad as I did yesterday, plus my voice is pretty much gone. So I'm home with tea and quiet and comfort, answering e-mails and hoping I don't sound too incoherent. I'm going to try to do some work from home today, though writing obituaries when I'm home sick seems a little strange.

I know, intellectually, that I should eat something. I haven't eaten anything since about 1 p.m. yesterday. But I have absolutely no appetite. I'll try to eat some soup later.

In non-sickness-related news, behold the glorious ToC for Twenty Epics. I'm in some good company there.



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