...though I hope you are doing well. Indeed, you probably are...

Ironically, there is nothing worse for me to read right now than a book for aspiring writers - I feel as if I have been pushed down the stairs quite forcibly, and really, it wasn't like I was making a lot of progress to begin with...

...part of what I write has to be an introduction, a raison d'etre, for the book itself. That throws all my "It's self-evident" insouciance right out the window.

Then I came across the section on how to write an author's bio, which is all well and good save for the fact that I have no qualifications. None at all. Merely being born is not good enough. Having gone to Ryerson helps, I suppose. My work on Plath, such as it is? Ha. And so forth.

Patience and persistence; I really lack them now. I feel flattened by my inability to do anything - I am in a figurative limbo that is quite literally preventing me from doing anything I should be doing, save for helping to clear out my now old apartment. Where I live now is much as it was a year ago, more or less; I hope to have my own room again soon, because as it is now, I have no private space. I wouldn't mind that if I was with him, but sadly I'm not...

...I got his cd (the much-needed RUN-D.M.C. debut) and compilation tape and letter yesterday and was happy and sad all at once; very happy at the contents, and then sad that I couldn't just fly across the Atlantic of my own accord to be with him. That feeling is as draining as my illness, by now. My mom asked me last night if I wanted anything "frivolous" for Christmas and I in turn had to ask her what that meant.

No, I am not in the world's greatest mood.