Rough night last night. I’m feeling a good deal better–still sweating the clammy, bitter sweat of the not entirely healthy, still just slightly more removed from reality than usual* but otherwise better–but the sinusoidal ills still plague me. I was doing great yesterday evening, but last night the dreaded Creeping Nasal Gunk kicked in, and after a few hours of tossing and turning and trying to find a position where one side or the other wasn’t immediately plugged up like constipated concrete, I finally relocated to the couch to sleep sitting more-or-less upright. Breathing through my mouth meant that the sore throat returned, as still-delicate tissues dried out, which was not to be considered. So I only got about four hours of sleep, and while I am awake and conscious and even reasonably alert, I can already tell that it won’t last too long.

As is usually the case when I am ill/drugged/brain dead, I can write, I can even draw a bit, as long as it’s Digger, since drawing Digger is now an automatic hindbrain function uncoupled from any requirement for thought, but higher art is totally a lost cause. Because of this, I now have tons of ideas. “Heeeey…giant stone armadillos! Yeah! More surrealist fun with naked mole rats! Yeah! Yeah! Mouse and lima beans!” (Lima beans? What the hell…?)

Cursed brain. I think it enjoys doing this to me.

So I’m running off prints, because it only requires a small bit of brainpower. Eventually I will probably go back to bed.

James’s sister will be arriving tomorrow afternoon, to spend a week with us, and I hope I’m feeling better by then. And that I don’t give her the plague. (James, of course, has both the iron dwarven constitution AND is on antibiotics, thus making him resistant to anything short of the biological equivalent of a tactical nuclear strike, or another tick with a grudge.) Since my mission this visit is to make dead certain that said sibling is using birth control, and I have carte blanche to go absolutely screaming ape-bat-shit otherwise, I want to be in top form. While this is one of the few topics that could raise me off my deathbed, with wrath in my veins and fire in my eyes (and perhaps sinuses) and perhaps even call me, Lazarus-like, back from the cold embrace of death,** there’s a chance my abused throat might give out before I was done hammering the point home, and nobody wants to give the second half of the Responsible Sex speech in mime.

*I know, I know, no need to say it…

** This is not an exaggeration. Someday, I will be the only ghost on earth appearing to rattle ghostly Norplants, writing “tHe rYthyM mEthoD iS nOt eFfecTive!” in ectoplasm on mirrors, and throwing poltergeist fits if anyone in the house dares to engage in unprotected sex.