At almost 54 and in declining health, there is absolutely nothing about aging that doesn't piss me off. It is degrading and painful and terrifying, and however others find nobility in it, I do not.
I spent most of yesterday in bed. Again. I slept a little more last night, a little more than the night before, so hopefully I can get some work done today. But this rotting body and the cold outside are doing their best to drag me down.
Yesterday's mail brought a package from Tom Montelone and Borderlands Press, pretty little books by Jack Ketchum, PZB, Karl Edward Wagner, Jonathan Mayberry, Bill Pronzini, Rick Hautala, Edward Lee, and Chet Williamson. I'll be doing one of these for Borderlands, likely to be titled The Little Yellow Book of Picaresque.
10:43 a.m. (this morning)