I always loved that song. And isn’t Oingo Boingo the best freaking name ever? …okay, maybe not, but I’m alive, if not exactly as sexy as Kelly LeBrock, and no matter how much Pantene I used to wash away the grime of a week and a half of sickness nobody hates me because I’m beautiful, and I’m still coughing through the night like some kind of monster rising from the grave after he sucked in a whole 6’x6’x3′ bunch of dirt — but I did write a little bit today, and I liked what I wrote, and the tot is all better.
So that makes it a good day.
I did manage to get a little bit of reading and rereading in: Salem’s Lot, because someone else mentioned it recently (I have a million posts and blogs to catch up on, and comments here, so I can’t remember just yet who it was) and that was fun; a really, really terrible HP, that I finished because a) I was too sick to get up and get another book, and b) it was a trainwreck; the Black Jewels Trilogy, which never fails to make me feel like a total hack, but still is comforting in its sheer wonderfulllllllness; a couple of Peter S. Beagle short stories from The Line Between, which were even better; and a couple of other books that weren’t bad but I can’t for the life of me remember what, and I can feel that cough grabbing at my throat so I’m finishing up and pushing PUBLISH, and I’ll remember them later.