I don't want to go downstairs. I want something to drink besides water, though. I just finished watching an episode of "The Operation" about hair transplant surgery, and I really need something else to think about. So I've fired up the mini coffeemaker provided with this room, and made a tiny little pot of coffee. I poured myself a cup of the stuff, and dumped eight packets of sugar and three packets of creamer into it.

Then I realized that I didn't want the coffee to be that hot, so I got a bucket of ice from the ice machine and stuck the coffee cup in the middle of the ice. That was over an hour ago. Once it was cooled, I drank it. And then I remembered why I don't ingest very much caffeine. It has a very strong effect on me.

When I open the drapes, I can see activity at the airport. Dammit. So close and yet so far. I'm scheduled for a Thursday night flight, routing me through Houston. What a crappy frigging route, but there's nothing else available. There's a bit of traffic starting to move on I-440 now. I'm getting really damn sick of looking at these broken trees. I can't decide what's more of a wasteland—the emptiness of the television, the sterility of this hotel room, or the frozen land outside.

I guess I should try to sleep. Catch breakfast downstairs—make sure to eat a lot of it so that maybe I can skip the ordeal of trying to climb to the next hotel up for lunch tomorrow. My left side hurts from where I fell on it.