When I cough, it takes me several minutes to catch my breath. I trail wadded up tissues behind me as I stumble about it my ratty old plaid robe and lobster slippers. The cat runs away from me, and then curls up on top of me to keep me warm. I am so sick it disgusts me. Also, I just want to say that I always feel like when I start a playlist and name it after what I want to call a fic, that the fic is half way written, but let me tell you all that this go around, I have a playlist and a title and not even one line of fic. My playlist+idea=fic equation is falling apart.
But BSG is on tonight, and I may do a post of stories I will never finish and soon I'm going to go out and have delicious foods. I suppose there is no reason to despair.
I am the kind of person who likes to believe that I am not at all like my mother, until the likenesses smack me upside the head and I can't deny it any longer. I received a phone call from her wherein I maybe got to say two words as she did a verbal whirlwind of "And then I worried that you would think I wasn't thinking of you, which I was, and I wanted you to know that I wish you weren't sick, and I love you, and I wanted to call you this morning and last night and all the time but I couldn't because my house is dirty and I hate it when my house is dirty and oh, hey, I was thinking about that guy you're kind of seeing, and his commitment issues, and I say you should make the best of them and sleep around if you want to, that's what I say and oh God, I just fell over, I have to go I have to go, I'm thinking of you, enjoy being young, I love you the house is dirty!!!"
So. That's my mother. And me. All in one.
And for the first installment of What We Got, last night I made homemade spaghetti-o's with condensed tomato soup and rotini. It was very comforting. Also, I have, it appears, bronchitis. Awesome.