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This week is not without its flaws, but so far it's head and shoulders above last week.
On the downside, I'm fighting off a cold. It surprised me yesterday morning--honestly, I wondered what's taken so long--and I immediately started an aggressive course of zinc. Even so, I threw in the towel around noon, got me some ramen at Sea Ranch, and went home to crash. Maybe as a result, I'm not feeling half as shitty today.
If I cared more about Pasillero, I would have cancelled last night to avoid infecting him. But I was feeling up to some fun and every time you put your tongue on another man's ballsack, you take your chances as far as contracting something goes. I don't regret it; it was a good time and my semen came out reassuringly snowy and not at all the festive pink it was last Thursday.
This afternoon is the staff holiday party. I was going to blow it off entirely, but now I think I might pop in for a moment on my way to JB's pre-Christmas get-together for us. He's not calling it that, but he's having us over and cooking for us so I pledged to bring some cocoa. I may pay for it all tomorrow but so what; my student is gone home for the term and this is a slow week.
I know it's superstitious to associate getting a cold with being outside for a bit, but, again, if I caught this virus while traipsing around Graceland with Mozhu on Sunday, then it was totally worth it. She's picked a lovely spot for Lee and we saw it right at sunset, when the towering sycamore to the north of it was lit up brilliantly. Afterwards we threaded down Soutport looking for the nearest café (which--somewhat surprisingly--is Meinl) and ended up at some snazzy Italian place a block away for dinner.
I never made it to either party on Saturday. Instead, I finished reading Room by Emma Donoghue, which very nearly wrecked me. Multiple times it had me weeping, which is extraordinary for a novel. Several times I couldn't even tell what exactly was getting to me and I made a conscious effort not to examine it; there's a whole lifetime to do that, but only one chance to read a book for the first time.
I also finished one short story anthology and will kill the other before leaving for St Louis Saturday. What next? I picked up The book thief at my stepmom's insistence but it's a fat fucker so I might sift through what I have for something a little more manageable.
On the downside, I'm fighting off a cold. It surprised me yesterday morning--honestly, I wondered what's taken so long--and I immediately started an aggressive course of zinc. Even so, I threw in the towel around noon, got me some ramen at Sea Ranch, and went home to crash. Maybe as a result, I'm not feeling half as shitty today.
If I cared more about Pasillero, I would have cancelled last night to avoid infecting him. But I was feeling up to some fun and every time you put your tongue on another man's ballsack, you take your chances as far as contracting something goes. I don't regret it; it was a good time and my semen came out reassuringly snowy and not at all the festive pink it was last Thursday.
This afternoon is the staff holiday party. I was going to blow it off entirely, but now I think I might pop in for a moment on my way to JB's pre-Christmas get-together for us. He's not calling it that, but he's having us over and cooking for us so I pledged to bring some cocoa. I may pay for it all tomorrow but so what; my student is gone home for the term and this is a slow week.
I know it's superstitious to associate getting a cold with being outside for a bit, but, again, if I caught this virus while traipsing around Graceland with Mozhu on Sunday, then it was totally worth it. She's picked a lovely spot for Lee and we saw it right at sunset, when the towering sycamore to the north of it was lit up brilliantly. Afterwards we threaded down Soutport looking for the nearest café (which--somewhat surprisingly--is Meinl) and ended up at some snazzy Italian place a block away for dinner.
I never made it to either party on Saturday. Instead, I finished reading Room by Emma Donoghue, which very nearly wrecked me. Multiple times it had me weeping, which is extraordinary for a novel. Several times I couldn't even tell what exactly was getting to me and I made a conscious effort not to examine it; there's a whole lifetime to do that, but only one chance to read a book for the first time.
I also finished one short story anthology and will kill the other before leaving for St Louis Saturday. What next? I picked up The book thief at my stepmom's insistence but it's a fat fucker so I might sift through what I have for something a little more manageable.
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