So, I have a new theory on why this round of revisions on the book is killing me so slowly and softly with its song. Unbeknownst to me, I have turned into a tragic literary heroine and someone is drugging me with some kind of Snow White/Juliet/etc.-style sleeping potion. That's the only possible explanation, right?
I took a five-hour nap yesterday afternoon. Buoyed by the tiny boost -- "boost," because something that short-lived needs sarcasm quotes -- the sleeping marathon provided, I stayed out at a party semi-late last night and got up reasonably early to go to a knitting store with a friend. And now I just fell asleep for another two-hour stretch of my day. I just woke up. It's dark. Again, still.
Blame the weather, sure, but I have reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder, remember? I love winter. I love that it's so cold in my room right now that I can't feel my fingertips. Hypothetically I love that, anyway. I am the picture of lassitude; I have become Miss Piggy without the bonbons or karate chopping. I didn't even have the energy to go to yoga this afternoon -- how could I possibly scream "hi-ya" and throw poor Kermit across the room.
If anyone's absolutely dying to get me a Chanukah present and hasn't yet, this would be good. Or this. Or maybe just these.
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