Health: I came down with a massive cold/perhaps flu late Wednesday. I was in bed with chills most of Thursday and Friday. I thought I was on the upswing, but nooo! It’s enough to make me a real germophobe. We have a shared keyboard and telephone at the reference desk, which I am planning to disinfect next time I am out there. Looking weird? Who cares?
I lost 2 pounds since Wednesday. It probably won’t stay off, since it was due to being sick, but I’ll take it.
Exercise: Except for shivering from chills, I’ve not done any exercise. Epic Fail. My dogs are very unhappy with me, since they prefer to walk with me rather than my husband (just kidding!)
Family: Fail. My only accomplishment is that (knock on wood) I haven’t gotten my husband sick.
Friends: I felt well enough on Saturday to connect with some friends (virtually, since I’m still Typhoid Mary).
Writing: I looked into moving to the new domain, but couldn’t figure it out. I finally swallowed my pride, and wrote WordPress Support for help.
My first of three posts on Gratitude went up on Lapidary Prose yesterday; it includes my thanks for the Versatile Blogger award which I received from L.S. Engler and Lena Corazon.
I have been rereading some of the novels I want to review, making notes in my Kindle. I’ve been planning future posts as well
Cheating a bit on Six Sentence Sunday, I have included below an eight-sentence excerpt from a short story that I wrote for some friends a couple of years ago. The protagonist has just let the girl go, for her own good, so he thinks. Take a look if you want *runs and hides*
Day Job: I was out most of Thursday and Friday. Works for me. 😀
As always, please go encourage the rest of the ROWers here.
He felt her loss as physically as if someone had cut off his leg or gouged out his eye. Silently shaking his head, he realized he had never felt this way. He had thought himself above this pedestrian emotion, but now he knew he had been protecting himself from this horrifying emptiness. The feeling that he could not survive without her any more than he could without air or water warred with the certainty that he would survive, after a fashion, to drag his incomplete and crippled soul through endless days of longing. And Mother Mary, the nights. He was cursed with dreams of her, much as he was the night they met. Now, however, Satan tortured him with the all-too-vivid memory of her skin under his hands, her kisses that met his with unpracticed passion, the weight of her when he picked her up into his arms. God in starry heaven, he would go mad.