Funny; this is the fifth time I've deleted a paragraph and started over. It's not that I don't have anything to say tonight. It's that my mind is tired and whirling and thinking about many different things at once.

Talk about interesting—I just emailed my mother with a slightly condensed version of the events of the past ten days. I've had this urge to sing the events in order, in the style of "We Didn't Start The Fire."

Rather appropriate, given that a burning car was involved. Well, if nothing else, a nasty bout of stomach flu would explain to my mother why I haven't written her yet this week.

Dear God, I hope that's just about everything, because my eyes are about to cross with tiredness.

As you can undoubtedly see, I've posted the bits-of-changes to domesticat. Yes, the header's a graphical one now. It's approximately 31K; I wanted the filesize to be smaller, but I haven't found a compromise that I like just yet.

What is the purpose of writing? Moreover, what is the purpose of the writer when they are not writing? I've been asking myself these questions for six years now, and I've never been satisfied with my answers.

I'd planned to try to go back to work this morning, but I realized this morning that I still needed to be on my anti-nausea medication. Since the pills make me sleep for an extended period of time, it really wasn't worth my while to go in to work for the short amount of time I would have been coherent.

By noon I was curled up under my favorite quilt in the guest bedroom, cats stretched out along my side. I slept for nearly five hours. I'm not sure what's in this medication, but it's the best sleep aid I've ever found.

I've tried to keep the day a quiet one. Some reading, some kitty-spoiling. I'm starting on Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King as my next literary read; it looks good so far.

Be impressed—I was seen by a doctor today. There was rejoicing in the streets, especially where my friends were concerned. The medical consensus is a well-known little bug known as "stomach flu." I was given phenergan to help combat the nausea I've been having, and told to go home and rest.

I took the medicine soon after I got home. I ate two pieces of toast, drank four ounces of juice, and settled in to read. I woke up nearly five hours later, desperately groggy, warm under my quilt, and with two purring cats nestled along my left side.And I was hungry. Tonight's supper is a bowl of soup. With crackers. And juice. It tastes warm and comforting and heavenly. It's Tuesday evening. I haven't been actually hungry since Saturday night. Jeff is eating pizza in the living room and the smell doesn't nauseate me; this is great.