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PacificWalrus of Sleet
Feb. 10th, 2018 10:40 pmRuined and terrible form of life here, checking in. The misery index continues to be stuck on eleventy. When I get a cold, it isn't so much like the case of the sniffles or maybe a little sore throat that people might imagine. It's more like a sort of junior flu. It is wretched, and I can't really do anything but drink tea, suck on cough drops, and cringe in pain, and bemoan my unhappy fate. I wish I could just be rendered unconscious till the middle of next week. I might as well be.
We're going to have another couple of inches of snow tonight. The last time but one that it snowed, a bit of sunshine followed the front, and neighbors came out to shovel snow and engage in cheerful conversation. Not any more. The clouds never go away, and furtive figures swathed in dark garments scurry out at random intervals to scrape away another iteration of the merciless white. There's no more conviviality. They're all sick of this and don't want to talk about it. I know I don't. The only bright spot in the entire world is a bunch of red tulips that the Sparrowhawk brought me from the garden store. I stare at them like a captive creature gazing dumbly at a reminder of some forgotten world.
We're going to have another couple of inches of snow tonight. The last time but one that it snowed, a bit of sunshine followed the front, and neighbors came out to shovel snow and engage in cheerful conversation. Not any more. The clouds never go away, and furtive figures swathed in dark garments scurry out at random intervals to scrape away another iteration of the merciless white. There's no more conviviality. They're all sick of this and don't want to talk about it. I know I don't. The only bright spot in the entire world is a bunch of red tulips that the Sparrowhawk brought me from the garden store. I stare at them like a captive creature gazing dumbly at a reminder of some forgotten world.
