a visit

Jo came over. I am up and around, sort of, a little bit. I think one more meclazine might help. After about 1/2 hour up I am flat on my back again. Yet there is part of a (slightly painful) soy latte inside of me. This latte is clamoring - agitating - to be free, to escape the confines of my body, and yet I have an iron will. I refuse to barf. I am the supreme dictator. Mind over matter. My body is not a democracy. There is also a rebellious one-fourth of a croissant. It shall not pass. At least not upwards and not now.

Life is good! Life is improving!

Everything smells bad in here. I wish to bleach everything and then bleach it again. That includes my own body. I will now go and shower and change out of the sweatpants I have been wearing for the last 3 days.

Reading: The Little Drummer Girl. In November on my trip to Boston, I checked out an extremely fancy airport bookstore - and they had EVERYTHING in there - yet no LeCarre. How can this be? I double checked. Still no LeCarre. It was as if he had entered some twilight zone of literature - too good for an airport novel, yet not good enough to be in the "classics" section of the fancy WH whatever bookstore along with Wuthering Heights.