I've been too sick to tell stories lately

and it reminds me how lucky I am to have Andre living here these days. It can be difficult (read that: impossible) dealing with my illness long-distance, and I am not looking forward to our steadily approaching stint of being apart. It's funny to think that when the book breaks in America, we'll both be in England. Strange, strange.

There's so much to do in the between time, for both of us. I have courses to plan and websites to build. And I'll be starting work with a new digital archive project soon. But really, all I want to do is sit in the crook of Andre's arm while he messes around on the computer and stare out the french doors into the quiet winter sun-shine street. And try not to think about how he's going to be gone soon. Or how incredibly sick I feel.

This morning I ran across the wood floor, from the bedroom to the living room, in my socks. Sliding and screaming, my arms raised and waving above my head like a crazy person, shut UP! shut UP! I'll shut your shutting it up! and jumped onto his lap laughing and covering his mouth with my hands and lips and face. He'd been making fun of me for some reason or another. And I collapsed into him and the couch. And we smiled at our faces. And he clinked and pecked on the laptop. And said, You know, the problem with me, really, is that I'm just so prolific.

Oh god, I moaned and rolled my eyes and laughed so hard I drooled all over the front of his shirt.

Oh god.