I brought an unexpected souvenir home from Michigan: the flu. (I'd thought it was allergies, but you don't run a fever with them.) I ache all over. Lots of coughing. No brain -- it's turned to mush. You know that, when Jeffrey Archer's self-obsessed Prison Diaries actually start to make sense. (I love the man's fiction work, even though he tends to be a pompous ass. Lots of twists and unexpected turns.) Even CSI: Miami episodes are starting to have philosophical implications.
Boy, I need to get better. Fast.
The Mama called from Michigan -- she's busy making apple butter and pies, from the bushels of fruit we picked. She says it's been dreary and spitting rain for days.
Here in Colorado, we've had warm days, lots of sun and fluffy clouds, and cool nights.
I wanted to tell you more, but... (see paragraph #1 about brain mush). Guess I'll go drink some hot tea, wrap up in an afghan, and ponder -- nothing.
Boy, I need to get better. Fast.
The Mama called from Michigan -- she's busy making apple butter and pies, from the bushels of fruit we picked. She says it's been dreary and spitting rain for days.
Here in Colorado, we've had warm days, lots of sun and fluffy clouds, and cool nights.
I wanted to tell you more, but... (see paragraph #1 about brain mush). Guess I'll go drink some hot tea, wrap up in an afghan, and ponder -- nothing.
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