Beautiful People

There is nothing like having Morrisey moaning in an endless loop in your head to accentuate a hangover. Heaven knows I'm miserable now.

Not really. It's just an itty bitty champagne hangover (although it could be a creeping hangover, the kind where you feel progressively worse as the day goes on—those are awful). It's still not good for writing, or for operating the stove. I just now realized the burning smell was not, in fact, my smokin' prose, but a smoldering pot of oatmeal I put on some twenty minutes ago.

Hangover or not, I am a happy girl today. My mother is on her way here. I leave for Dublin with my sweetheart in just a few days. I have the world's very best friends, even if their eyes do glaze over when I say the word, "blog" (developments that seem momentous on this front carry over to my life in the round with all the impact of "huge in Japan" — you, dear readers, are my Snuffalufagus).

I know it does nothing whatsoever for my Technorati rating to tell you life is good, that the most I have to complain about is slight nausea, a few late bills, and an astonishing quantity of unfolded laundry. Bad news is better for ratings everywhere, maybe more so in this arena. The cyberbahn is lined with wrecks and rubber neckers. There's not much to slow down for here if that's your thing.

It's perfectly alright with me. I had two lovely notes from a reader this morning waiting for me when I got up, one of which went straight to my Moral Support folder (thanks, Marie!). Notes has been around for little more than a year, and although I keep expecting smelly little trolls to show up and track their shit in, they have so far kept away. My experience with all of you has been overwhelmingly positive. Your affection and support has a very real impact on me, and I include you in the people I am feeling warm and fuzzy about today (although I blame those other friends for the fuzzy part).

As Patrick often says about our boys: I do believe I got the very best ones.