Home sick.

I sit at my cluttered computer desk and munch on what has become my weekend breakfast of choice: orange marmalade generously slathered onto two slices of buttered cinnamon-raisin toast. I'm back to drinking green tea, this time from my black new mug, a capacious ceramic piece that goes for just a buck at any Wal-Mart.

I slept through most of yesterday, missing out on a Six Flags trip and a backyard barbecue. It was just one of those days when I wish I could curl up inside the womb, rocking in the roiling tides, comforted by the beating of my heart.

We finally ventured out just before six, to return library items and check out new ones. I had that strange overly sensitive feeling one gets when feverish: my clothes felt too rough and restrictive, and the lightest breeze gave me chills.

Patrick and I got haircuts, too: him because he needs one, me because he's been telling me for the longest time that I do too. I'm indifferent, for once. He tells me now that it looks the same; I basically just got my layered cut a long-overdue trim. The lady hairdresser told me I'm pretty and Patrick's sooo nice, that I'm lucky that he's neat and that we don't have kids yet, because as they grow problems grow with them.

I'm done dreaming. I don't know what to wish for anymore.