Or “I should really be getting some sleep, but drowsy medications (save for Nyquil) have the opposite effect on me,” with just a dash of “I feel guilty for what I perceive as neglecting my writing, and Misadventures in Fiction.”
Let me start by getting this out of the way: I do not handle being sick well at all. I’m a total wimp about illness. Case in point? I have an upper respiratory infection, but my behavior suggests a diagnosis of Ebola, primary amoebic meningoencephalitis (PAM for short. Google it, and be amazed/horrified.), and a dash of bird-swine-fish flu for good measure. I can’t stress enough how I should probably be sleeping right now.
There’s a murky, unpleasant place in my mind, full of generally unpleasant things. Most people have similar places somewhere in their thoughts (I’m fairly confident in this statement, anyway). On nights like this, some of its denizens–covered in sharp spines, and equipped with sharp claws and rotten, twisted fangs–creep out and torment me. There are plenty of different variations on these wee mental beasties. Continue reading