Is This a Real Reason for Not Writing?

I'm sick. Probably picked something up from the family over Christmas. Everyone knows kids are germy. This morning, I opted to sleep until ten to allow my immune system to charge, but I know that a truly determined writer would refuse to be impeded by a sore throat and what feels like full-body congestion. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I went shopping. Because there's nothing quite so heartwarming as sharing a disease with an entire town. I went to Maurice's, the only tolerable clothing store in town, and quickly realized that I'm becoming too old for most of the things there; must be time to move. I also went to B. Dalton, where I was assisted by a former student who probably found it fitting, since the writing class he took with me was food-themed (no one but me appreciated the fact that food connects with everything in life), that I bought a cookbook. Tyler Florence's Eat This Book. Tyler Florence is hot. He has a show, on which he uses knives so deftly it's sexy. Also, his food looks good. Although...I probably won't be making any of the recipes whose accompanying photos include tentacles and suckers. Or the one where the shrimp are looking at me through the breading. Since shopping, I've spent most of the day rereading A Brief History of the Flood, which is productive, because I plan to reference it in my thesis. In fact, I should get back to that.