Sorry about that last entry, but I think it conveys my state of mind. Was up too late last night, overslept but woke up groggy and brainless and with an aching back and shoulders (one shoulder twinging pretty severely for a while, but I managed to pound/massage it into submission), encountered several people even stupider than I on the freeway on the way to work. Sat at my desk all day; got some stuff done, but spent too much of the day writing long responses to an editor about edits made to my documentation, and the fact that the reason I'd made one particular terminology choice that she objected to was that she'd recommended it two months ago.
Continued groggy and out of sorts all day; food momentarily improved mood a couple of times, but not for long. Came home (it gets dark by 7:30 p.m. these days; I forgot to note the passing of the equinox as it went by), had dinner, watched a few bits of the DVD extras for Fight Club for lack of sufficient brain to do anything else. Then got in the car to return DVDs, had more mildly surreal/confusing interactions with video-store guy. Drove to the grocery store and picked up some Double Rainbow chocolate sorbet for Mya, because when she'd called earlier to work out logistics regarding an upcoming out-of-town visitor she'd mentioned that she was all out of Double Rainbow chocolate sorbet. Dropped off the ice cream, collected hugs from Mya and Gerry, drove home, and now we're back to where we started. ("Flashback humor." Fight Club had some really brilliant moments. More on that another time.)
The really oddest thing about today, though, was that this morning I printed out a new story and put it in an envelope and mailed it to Kentucky, where I hope it will be considered for Christopher Rowe's Say . . . Was That a Kiss? (It should arrive just barely in time to meet the deadline.) This is only the second piece of fiction I've submitted anywhere in the past year-plus, and the first that I've printed out. I had almost forgotten what standard manuscript format looked like.
(The interaction at the post office was mildly surreal too.)
Okay, enough wombling. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds good. Perhaps a bit of editorial work, perhaps a bit of brainless movie-watching. Then I collapse.