I’m not an invalid.
It’s also good for me, I think. I’m reminded of why I both love and hate living on my own (a state of being which will soon come to pass once again). I love having space to myself, having time to breathe and think without worrying about how someone else is reading everything I’m doing, and trying to come up with ways to make sure they’re happy. I hate it because, well, it’s easier for me to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I spent all those lonely hours in South Africa drinking bottles and bottles of Laborie pinotage and chain smoking. But, you know, I also finished writing a 200,000 word novel. 60,000 words of which were worth keeping.
Eh. I’m going to go read something, and drink some diet Coke.