desperance (desperance) wrote,

Ah, soddit

The whole house smells of the cleaners' numerous and noxious chemicals, which make my chest hurt.

And I'm getting nothing done anyway*, so I'm out of here. I shall walk downtown and browse the bookshop and then Macy's for food-porn accessories; it's the best we have to offer in walking distance. And I'll take the LHP, and pretend to myself that I might stop at the pub on the way home to do some work. We both know I'm only pretending, but hey.

*Apparently all I really want to do is lie on the sofa and drink tea and (re)read old favourite books. This is a little odd, as it's like being a younger me, when that was all I wanted to do all the time. In recent years I haven't been reading half as much, let alone rereading; this revisiting of old favourites has become the thing I do when I'm ill, only. There's a vague possibility that I was mildly ill a few days back (so coooold...), but that passed off by next morning, and there's nothing wrong with me now; except, except. It's probably just my native idleness rising like bog-oak in the mire, but oh: even leaving the house is an effort that feels almost beyond me. Even when the house is full of poison. Everything's heavy and hard, except for turning pages and starting the next chapter...
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