Sick. Fever. Chills. Headache. Dizziness. Nausea. The nausea being the worst–because I feel that if I could just EAT, I could get BETTER.
I stayed in bed until 2pm when I was finally able to get up and walk downstairs. Now I’m on the couch utterly bored out of my mind, gritting my teeth at the nausea.
I obsessively waited for the mailtruck. If I had dog ears, you’d see them, continuously cocked for that low rumbling sound accompanied by the metal “clack” of the mailbox opening and closing. I checked the mail and found two envelopes for me: one from MacDowell, the other from a litmag. Both rejections, as expected (my friend received her MacDowell letter on the East Coast two days ago, another person received hers yesterday–I figured I would receive mine today as the mail wound its way to the West).
Prop 8 passed.