The Fever.

I'm almost finished The Catcher In The Rye. It's one of those books where nothing of significance has happened yet, and I have absolutely no idea what is going to happen. It's all very entertaining, nonetheless. Afterwards I'll finish Jane Eyre, and move on to something else.

I'm kind of boring, aren't I?
I've caught some sort of virus. It's really unfortunate. I was having anxiety attacks in quick succession, and I think it wore my immune system down to the equivalent of an infant. I'm so out of it I have to try really hard to process what I'm writing right now. I've slept more than can be healthy in the past three days, and everything is exhausting me! I should eat. Since Monday afternoon I've eaten three pieces of toast and a banana. I've also had at least three times my weight in gingerale.

Lately, I've really wanted it to be Christmas. I was never a big fan of Halloween and it's looking like I'll be sick anyhow. Once when I was younger, eight or nine I think; I was sick on Halloween, and I had to stay home. My brother went out door to door with my cousins, and then they each gave me half their candy. I'll never forget that.
Christmas. I really would like it if it was closer to Christmas, or if there was more snow on the ground. It snowed once, and then it rained and ruined it. Christmas is probably my favorite time of year, and I believe if anyone really thought about it, they wouldn't actually have to stress about shopping and such. I really don't see the stress factor in it at all.

I have been listening to a great deal of Bob Dylan lately. There's always an amount of Dylan in my song transistions, but lately, more than usual. He is probably one of my favorite lyricists.
I think this post is jumping strangely from topic to topic, much unlike my usual style, but the fever is getting to me.