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At this point it's pretty obvious that I'm sick. It's also pretty obviously AmberCon weekend. That thing I've been obsessing about ever since I stopped obsessing about the play. With people I haven't seen in forever, some of whom are really cute. And stuff I want to do. And stuff people expect me to do.
I don't know how contagious I am. I know hotel air gives me respiratory problems when I'm not full of phlegm (my favorite humour, it seems), let alone when my throat is already raw. Then there's the fact that I will spend the entire weekend talking. Occasionally shouting (a room with fifteen musketeers means it's mandatory), laughing, and perhaps drunken karaoking. And convention hours, and trying to sleep at a hotel, and keeping Amanda awake when I do it, and convention eating...
Fucksicles. I really don't think I can go. ....well. Not for the whole weekend, anyway. Maybe I could come down for dinner or something?
I don't know how contagious I am. I know hotel air gives me respiratory problems when I'm not full of phlegm (my favorite humour, it seems), let alone when my throat is already raw. Then there's the fact that I will spend the entire weekend talking. Occasionally shouting (a room with fifteen musketeers means it's mandatory), laughing, and perhaps drunken karaoking. And convention hours, and trying to sleep at a hotel, and keeping Amanda awake when I do it, and convention eating...
Fucksicles. I really don't think I can go. ....well. Not for the whole weekend, anyway. Maybe I could come down for dinner or something?