Níl ionam ach deoraí

It snowed again last night. A light dusting, like last Sunday. And like Sunday's, it had mostly been burned off by the sun before noontime when I went into work. I took the morning off because I once again woke up feeling crappy. Sometimes it seems like my last cold never cleared it, it just went dormant.

I came home yesterday feeling pretty crappy, too. As a result, I got into a fight with monshu, making me feel even worse. A "fight"--I got a single drop of gravy on the floor, he gave me a hard time about it, and I just walked out, went downstairs, and curled up in bed. We haven't talked since unless you count my asking him this morning how he slept and him shrugging me off.

I'd avoid going home right now if I had someplace else to go. Obviously I could skulk in a café or something, but I mean someplace I could simply hang out without the anxiety of dealing with strangers. It's depressing to think that, at this stage of life, I don't really have any friends in the neighbourhood who I could just drop in on.

That's probably enough feeling sorry for myself. Good thing I'm reading Gerry Conlon's autobiography for some perspective. I had to take a break from Famine, which I'm finding too absurd to be believable but also too grim to be amusing, and a memoir of being wrongly imprisoned by the British during the Troubles is about as far as you can get from that.