Not deep and meaningful, or even writerly.

The husband is asleep in an armchair, and the dog is asleep on his couch, with his nose buried behind the pillow. Me, the sicky, I’m awake, hacking and sniffing and wishing for the miraculous appearance of popsicles. (Of course, the fact that we have no popsicles is my fault, seeing as how I ate a boxful over the last week. Sigh.)

I read an issue of the New Yorker, and then I got sidetracked by the Internet and have somehow spent more than an hour (ok, more than two) looking at things that really can only be looked at on the Internet. And which have no literary or intellectual value whatsoever. For example, the daily travels of Mr. Lee. Or, witness how much more I might have liked math, if math were always like this. Also, I admit to making up ridiculous band and album names for, um, my dog.

Good times.

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