Tom is heading out to work early this morning (lumber delivery to supervise), and I was insomniac on the couch for half the night, so life is feeling a bit twilight zone around here. But I've "woken" to discover that the monster decided to sign the Covid bill after all, so that's a small relief. I guess as long as he can make us nauseated and afraid, he feels like he's getting his money's worth.

Today I'll attempt not to think about how much I hate him. Instead, I'll get back to my desk work, and wash sheets, and probably go grocery shopping, and maybe, in the afternoon, ask Paul to help me take down the shedding tree and put away the ornaments.

My January nerves are beginning to twitch: I've got a class and a lecture to plan, and a manuscript to finish editing, and an artist collaboration to begin sussing out. All are good, and some even pay, but naturally their deadlines are smack on top of each other. For the moment, I'm hoping to focus on getting the ms under control. It shows all signs of being a semi-easy job, which is about the best one can hope for in the copyediting business. After spending most of the fall wrestling with a dense and gnarled translation, I'm relieved to have been assigned a simpler project.

Probably, after I finish drinking this cup of tea, I'll manage to feel a bit more enthusiastic about life. It's remarkable how debilitating insomnia can be. Sunday was really pleasant--low-key, friendly, and I even got stuff done. Plus, Tom and I managed to carve out some version of a date together while Paul was downtown making pizzas. But this morning my brain insists on sulking and glowering, flaunting the chip on its neurological shoulder, all because it didn't get its full complement of sleep. What a baby.

Still, even my cranky brain can't help but enjoy the heat wafting from the furnace vents, the scent of Earl Grey steaming up from my mug. I'll coax it into cheerfulness, eventually.