Ill.

Up past midnight, reading Gulliver's Travels while I cough to the point of perfecting the muscles in my abdomen. It's that bad. Coughing requires use of my entire body, so I've developed upper back pain and muscle tension in my abs. Egh.

I sleep a good four to five hours without severely coughing. I'd like to think I'm slowly walking downhill to the tail-end of this inevitable cold. I wish I had different flavors or tea and a well stocked pantry with different kinds of soup. God, I am so sick of soup.

I keep thinking about starting another book club. I only have one month of vacation and I'm already sick of the inactivity. I read Jane Eyre for a moment, and my Mother is right, Bronte trumps Austen without question. However, I left my book in my boyfriend's car and had to pick up another book. Here we are Gulliver's Travels...

I feel.. unlike myself. Brainwashed, as if I cannot make any decisions for myself without some odd intervention of a stranger, a salesperson, or a mongrel. Sometimes I feel that I would be better suited on a farm, or in the mountains away from a superficial world. What I do know? :T