I lost the entire weekend to the sickness that's rampaging through the office. On Friday morning, my stomach hurt a bit and I felt tired. I intended to go to work, but my husband insisted I stay home. Smart man. As soon as he left, I went back to bed. I spent the next two days doing the following cycle:
- Sleep for two hours.
- Wake up aching because I hadn't moved at all. Drag self to bathtub and draw hot bath.
- Sleep in bathtub for one hour.
- Wake up. Drag self to bed.
- Go back to #1.
The first day, I managed to eat four saltines. The second day, I think I probably ate about twelve. I want to say it was hellish, but I honestly don't remember much more than wandering back and forth between the bed and the bathtub.
At least I'm just fine now... just in time to take care of hubby as he goes through it. Well, except that instead of sleeping, he's sitting up, staring at nothing, whining that he's exhausted, and refusing to go to sleep. I really hope I wasn't this whiny when I was sick. ;)
I had been so excited this weekend to sit down and write. Not that I had any idea what I would write (I still do have like fifteen half-completed stories sitting open), but I really wanted to. I have had the chance since getting better to write a bit, and that's disappointed me, because I can't seem to concentrate on the real stories I want to write. I won't commit to a longer piece (and there's one that's really grabbed my attention, but I just won't sit down and start it), and whenever I put my hands to keyboard, I don't seem to want to work on the shorter ones. As it is, I ended up cranking out a piece of pure fluff that's just kind of embarrassing. But it's writing, and I'm always happy to finish something. (Well, I have to nail on the end, and then it'll be done. Soon, I hope.)