Invalid Guilt

Since I am still recovering, I ought not feel bad that I am taking advantage of others' sympathy, right? Extorted a new black bra from my Mum, escaped making emotionally satisfying but meaningless promises via IM to G. the Hat, plan on making the Boy snuggle me (but at least I'll get him dinner, and maybe make his night a bit better). I'm thinking of calling all the people I've been a crappy friend to and demanding their forgiveness. Plus, I've finished Lucky Jim (Amis, you mad thing!), and instead of reading some Rosseau or at least rereading Tom Jones, I am reading Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister by the guy who wrote Wicked. My little sister lent it to me, saying it is really cool. I should just find a bloody Cosmo or something. Or the New York Times bestseller, or the Oprah Bookclub choice, or the Harlequin book of the month. I'm afraid I'm actually enjoying this poorly written sentimentalist tripe because it is so profoundly untaxing. It's like literary butterscotch pudding.

On a side note, my painkillers (I am going to blame them, otherwise it's too horrifying) made me have a creepy pseudo-Buddhist sex dream. Haunted by the memory of imagined sins. Gah. Maybe I should go to confession, because obviously Something is pissed at me.