I have felt so useless since I came down with this cold. I can’t concentrate on anything anymore. I don’t even know why I try reading anything right now. My ability to dance is pretty much gone until my body morphs back to its normal shape after this stupid testosterone imbalance finally runs its course. And writing. Writing? Really? Who wants some sort of immortalized turn of phrase documented when she is so run down? It’s just a cold. I know it’s just a cold. But my personality really shouldn’t be expected to glow until I can get over this ridiculously ugly problem. Until then, here are some bits of media recommended for public consumption…
Bridge of Birds by Barry Hughart—I have only two pieces of advice: Seek cover, and beware divine light.
Serenity—“She always did like to dance.” “I can kill you with my brain.” “I aim to misbehave.”
Eets—You try to get this adorable little creature to the puzzle piece, but you can only control his environment, where he walks, and what he eats.
Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein—Sometimes, aliens are benevolent.
Stardust—Every walk of life seeks her; she is used to staying up all night; and, she glows when she’s happy.