It's time to admit I'm sick with a cold or something, despite my attempt to convince myself the throat pain was the result of sleeping in this:
The place I'd most like to be in the world is in my bed, in a clean and quiet house. It feels like that is never going to happen. Instead, the house is filled with painters, including the one who keeps wildly sneezing without trying to cover his mouth. I mean, he can try to pretend to cover up. I'm at the library, sitting among a bunch of people sneezing and coughing. It was bound to happen. If this remodel goes on much longer, I will soon become a person who sleeps in her car in the parking lot outside of the library.
But, hey, paint!
