Update: I've been sitting at this desk since I pulled myself out of bed and I have nothing decent to show for it.

Trash, the lot. After the intial rush, I can't pull my act together enough to churn out any thing else. I have a hellish draft which needs to be pruned, the ugly overgrown shrub.

I have been informed I am ill. Bah, I say. All geniuses are ill by society's standards. I spit on bowing to fever. Ptui. That is a spitting sound.

Reminds me of an incident back in Peneng, when I was a much shorter Missy: My older (gamer) brother took me to McDonalds to get food while he was babysitting me when I had a fever. He put the food in the back seat (I wonder now if he did that intentionally, horrid boy). The temptation was too much for a six year-old Missy - Might I have one french fry, just one? He said it was fine, even with my fever. Just one.

So one I took. I nibbled at it as slowly as I could, trying to make it last. After that, I figured, well, two, two wouldn't hurt at all. And after two - why not three? It'll only be three, just three...

I polished off three-quarters of the pack, and felt so very guilty. Starve a fever, feed a cold, I had been taught. (I never got a cold, so I came to associate periods of illness with no food) I tried to arrange the remaining fries so it wouldn't look like there were so few. I was terrified that my brother would notice and tell Mother.

Later that night my fever spiked. Mother was at a loss as to why; hadn't I been recovering nicely? The fries seemed to settle in the pit of my belly, mixing nicely with the guilt. No one's fault but my own.

Y'know, when I was really tiny I used to have two nightmares only when I had a fever. One I still get now, is the sensation of everything going too fast for my brain to process. This hyper-sensitivity to every single thing around me.

Why can't I have a cool super power? Huh? Huh?