I think I'm sick.

Fever, aches, sneezing, sore throat. But none of it really bad enough to stay home from work. Not bad enough to be worth the aggravation of hearing, "Oh, can't you come in? We need help wiping our asses and you're the best ass-wiper we have."

I know I've been bitter and dull recently. It's just that when I'm active and busy at home is when I'm happiest. When I'm knitting or painting the bedroom or making cookies. By the time I've settled down and I'm ready to write, I'm usually exhausted and that's when I get moody and cranky and possibly a little despairing of the future.

But don't get me wrong. I am having some good times and fun projects. I've started socks with some beautiful yarn and tiny needles. I'm getting really enjoyably obsessive and will have perfect, beautiful socks that will undoubtedly take me six months to make, but that's okay, because they will be perfect beautiful socks.

Now I'm babbling. I really do have a fever. Off to bed.