"Stories are antibodies against illness and pain."-Anatole Broyard . . . and I'm sick again. I went home early from work today because I felt like crap, couldn't really hear out of one ear, and couldn't keep my snot in my nose. So I've been sleeping, reading, and taking hot baths all day long, but mostly just sleeping. Now I'm bored, but I know I don't have any energy to do anything. I'm supposed to be writing a poem on pressure, but I'm waiting until I'm actually under pressure to do it. Okay, so really I can't think of anything to write. I should have done it two days ago when I had this weird pre-illness energy and decided that should quit my job and design clothing for Christmas tree angels. The little voice of logic in my head had a royal bitch-fit over that one. Something about Christmas only happening once a year and my sewing skills being questionable.