I should be working.
But considering that I'm only about 36 hours out of praying for death to take me swiftly--and still not able to sit up for terribly long at a time--the clients may just have to fuck off for one more day. It won't hurt them.
Also the neighbors' kids playing basketball practically under my damned bedroom window does not help with my concentration in the least.
And so I write here, instead.
I wasn't able to do shit but wallow in misery Sunday, but most of yesterday I laid in bed and read. I have found myself reading Rick Bragg again. I was first introduced to his work in my Literature of the South class in Spring 2006, my last semester of undergrad. Our instructor in that class had gone to high school with Bragg, and she always included his work in her syllabus for both that class and the Alabama Literature class I was (unfortunately) never able to take. Also unfortunately, he usually was able to come and speak to her classes after they'd read his book(s), but that particular semester he was out of the country, I think (dammit).
So instead of wallowing in misery, I have been wallowing in the thick, rich prose of Rick Bragg. And what a pleasant wallow....
Unfortunately, it also has led me to thinking more about how I need to use the only talent God ever gave me for something other than porn ads. Not that I wasn't already thinking that, of course, but reading Bragg has only made me feel that way more.
Too bad I'm no good at fiction, at poetry, at comedy, or at damn near anything else.
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