Onslaught

[When I'm logged in and on my userinfo page, I can't see any bolding on my friend-of list any more. Is that just me?]

Right now, I am tired, but the thought of sleep seems to be repellent. I guess I am ill, 'cause I'm losing the capacity to think in cause-and-effect terms - the leap from I'm sleepy to I'll go to bed seems impossibly wide. I'm not even going to try to get across.

I posted fic to mash-slash yesterday, and got wonderful feedback, which doesn't account for my sudden extreme writers' block. Even writing this is a struggle.

Pedar came by earlier to inform me he liked the article of mine that was published in Calliope. "It's like sitcom writing," he said, thoughtfully.
"Why?" I asked, falling into it.
"Because nothing happens!" said he, and vanished.

He has no soul. In all seriousness, he thinks in a very different way to me. He sees things. He likes things to be visual, to be in terms of light and shadow, where I like them to be in terms of words. I don't understand how this came to be.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow, actually. But I'm so tired, and so wracked with bacterial/viral onslaughts that I may not enjoy it.

Paracetamol {continued}

"And I said, what about Breakfast at Tiffany's?
She said, I think I remember the film..."

I have to get dressed, and get the bloody rail-replacement bus service, and I have a headache, and I need to find something to wear, and somehow I think I need to take more paracetamol and I hate it, I just know my IQ will drop a few dozen points, and I'm running late now.