A few days ago I finally succumbed to the cold Orion had, and promptly lost my voice to the merest whisper. Now it's returning, in part, skipping like a cheap ballpoint pen. It's an entirely annoying thing, and impossible to control. Here is where I gain sympathy for adolescent boys.
Once again I wonder if the Fortune Teller is indeed cursed. Last week was slated for finishing it. Instead I spent it nursing this cold, eating chicken soup and taking vitamins, trying to avoid the pneumonia I'm prone to, and being thoroughly depressed. Adding insult to injury, my cold meds completely wired me last night, so that I was able to conjure every possible thing I could worry about, which doesn't allow for a lot of sleeping.
Ah well. It takes living through a few real catastrophes to help one appreciate an ordinary crappy day for what it is. I'll take it. After all, it will pass. They always do.
Poppets are headed out to people who bought them in the auctions. Thank you. And now I'm starting to prepare for Balticon. For about five minutes I considered taking Fortune Teller with me. I don't dare. It's already impossibly late for its destination and I'm not tempting fate any further.
And now I hear Griffith Park is burning. It's not fire season yet. It's going to be a hot, dry summer. I need a popsicle.