Ugh. I've had a migraine on and off for what feels like months (and what is probably more like "a month," but I tend to get dramatic when I feel like my eyeballs might actually break free of my face at any minute). Today I finally had to call in to work, because standing up and walking around made/is making me puke. Lamesauce. I'm stressing out because I've already been warned for taking more than 3 sick days this year, and I hate being in trouble (and endangering my job, of course), and I just really really really hate it when my health negatively affects anyone else. (I never actually see a single soul in my office on Fridays, but it's possible someone would come by and desperately need me to refill the paper in the printer for them, so guilt.)
I think I take frailty really personally. I assume other people are thinking she should tough it out through that, because I'm thinking that about myself - probably everyone does that.
*shrugs*
I finished reading The Help last night on my shiny Kindle device. I whipped through it (omg, reading is amazing when it doesn't take effort, and I'm looking at you, Russian literature in translation), and really enjoyed it. I love novels about 20th century race relations in the South. That said, Skeeter. The problems with this novel have been pretty clearly stated by lots of people, and I ground my teeth through quite a bit of it, but it's a good read. Maybe there's something to this whole "reading bestsellers" thing.
