There’s nothing like a bad cold to make me feel purely sorry for myself. Labyrinthis...chest infections...anything that feels or seems to the outer world remotely serious, I can summon up good humor about, or at least give it a solid try. But colds? When my throat’s raw, my nose is throbbing and my eyes are puffy, I lose my sense of humor, any sense of perspective, and--before either of the above--the slightest bit of self-consciousness about wanting to be a good sport. Ever since last night, my moaning has been interrupted only by very fitful bouts of sleep (between blowing my nose). And I’m pretty sure I was complaining even in my dreams.

Ah well. Now I’m sitting in Starbucks in the hour before work, and it’s pretty much the perfect atmosphere for me right now. I’m sitting on a couch, many other women on their own are sitting separately around the café, looking tired and faded, and the program on the stereo is Angsty Female Rockers From My Undergrad Days. (We just finished Alanis Morisette, and now we’re listening to “I’m a Bitch, I’m...”) It all feels obscurely comforting, on a very deep level. If only I could retire back to my old dorm room after this, to call in sick from all my classes/rehearsals and dig myself deep into bed to dose myself with early-’90s chick-movies and tinned soup...

At least my morning started out right. I gave up on sleeping at about 6:45 and ended up looking online to distract myself--and found a new Sarah Prineas short story up on Strange Horizons! I loved Crow’s Changeling. Beautiful, off-beat, evocative...and with a definite autumnal feel. Go check it out!

Meantime, it’s time for me to try to do some of my own writing...the beginning of Chapter Eight awaits!