I've reached some new plateau; I am writing this from work. It's a slow day and I am bent on making it slower. It's rainy and foggy outside, with occasional bursts of sunshine. I am looking forward to seeing some good friends who've been out of the country for a while, wondering if my fatigue will lift enough for me to be a good companion, and worrying that I am coming down with a cold. A few people at work have been truly stricken with illness: strep throat, flu, and other semi-serious afflictions. I feel a certain amount of reasonable hypochondria is in order. I am loading up on zinc, vitamins, and liquids, but sleep has been elusive. Since that is usually the one ingredient that makes the cure, I am concerned about its lack.

After a brief foray into "real" literature, via Cormac McCarthy's bleak and satisying Road, I am back to popping romance novels at an alarming pace. Part of the reason for my lack of sleep is my habit of staying up too late reading the latest romance. I am not sure which comes first, the novel or the insomnia. My new therapist seems inclined to delve into my romance-reading proclivities, so perhaps some sort of revelation and/or acceptance is forthcoming. For now, I will begrudgingly admit that this self-soothing method is probably not the worst one I could pursue. How's that for damning with faint praise?