I have a flist full of Shakespeareans and medievalists. Surely someone can help the man out?
There is no hot water this morning. I have a headache from washing my hair under the cold water tap. It's a hard life where-ever you go.
Today, it is raining. I am going to sit in my big chair, drink tea, eat oatmeal toast with pink grapefruit marmalade, and in general recover from yesterday, which involved ten hours in the car and reaching that state where a McDonald's cheddar melt actually tasted pretty good. (Thus, I have discharged my yearly obligation to check and make sure I still don't like fast food.)
I am not going to the gym, and I am not going for a walk, except maybe to the corner to buy cat food.
I will read, and I will probably write some fanfic, because the nice thing about long drives is that they tend to make huge chunks of story fall into my head. (When netcurmudgeon and I drove from Las Vegas to Hartford in 2002, at the other end of the trip I sat down and wrote the first draft of By the Mountain Bound in three weeks. It was all there.)
I should probably feel guilty about goofing off that profoundly and Wasting My Talent On Writing For Self-Entertainment, but you know what? I don't. I might feel a little guilty about not feeling guilty, though.
Take that, guilt gorilla.
In other news, the only thing more fun than an 8 week old Briard puppy is four 8 week old Briard puppies that you get to give back after you're done wrestling with them and getting them wound up.
Someday, I will live someplace where I can have a dog again. And plant some rosebushes and raspberry brambles.