And today, it's cold again.
What have I been up to? Well, I read my first Sherlock Holmes story, A Study in Scarlett, and 2001: A Space Odyssey, which had a really weird ending. I read some of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, by David Foster Wallace, and found it beyond weird. This last work is not a novel, not a collection of short shories, but random interviews with strangely twisted people. It got too depressing for me, so I set it aside. It's not necessary to read every word to get the point, anyway. I'm also working on Guns, Germs, and Steel, by Jared Diamond, which I'm enjoying but will have to interrupt soon so that I get our next reading group novel in, which I've read before but don't remember well--The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It is sure to be an enjoyable read again, and then I will get back to Diamond's book before delving into all the sequels/companion books that beckon, such as The Girl Who Played with Fire by Steig Larsson, 2010 by Arthur C. Clarke, The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, and The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood. That's the plan. I'm SO good at carrying out my plans. (That's sarcasm).
And I'm all but committed to do The Broad Street 10 miler in Philadelphia this May, which I'm hoping will give me more incentive to get up in the morning. Getting up is so hard to do, for some reason. It's just a hateful time of the day for me. Wanting to stay in bed indefinitely is not a good way to be, not a happy symptom at all. Too many weekends are spent in my jamies. And so, I confess to throwing in the towel and actually making a doctor's appointment to talk it over. Que sera sera...
Well, except for food and beer, which I have a disturbing need for. The beer, I mean. The food-need is quite normal, quite understandable. *Yawn* that margarita I just made myself is making me sleepy, better get to bed, so I can get up and run again.