Still story-free
It is depressing. I'm still half-stuck in sixth-century West Britain, and I don't really want to be here any more, as now it truly is nothing but self-indulgence.

I have been on a more-or-less starvation diet (Lyle McDonald's Protein-Sparing Modified Fast) since the beginning of February. Results: nominal. Still showing thyroid symptoms, despite obstinate reluctance of blood tests to reveal anything concretely wrong (and I mean beyond merely near-starving myself for a month and losing a mere four pounds, when most women report losses of from fifteen to twenty-five pounds).

Tired. I need an idea. I need to write something. I need time. I need my dog to not greet me by throwing up in the hall, and my cats to stop tracking litter about the house.

Speaking of cats. This morning, I heard a sort of ruckus in the kitchen. I went to investigate, and found that Zozo, the fluffy, water-loving cat (and the main culprit in the leaving of mucky littery pawprints anywhere there is a damp sink or tub) had stuck her face deep into the teapot in the sink, and was stuck.

Can I sell them all? How much would I get for them?