This post is essentially for my friend Jason, who pointed out this post's sad necessity. Last time we were here, I made a statement that basically said that if you're living with a purpose, such as writing in my case, you won't ever get sick or feel bad or have pain and your life will just be puppy dog kisses and marshmallow clouds.
Literally that day, my back pain came back and I started developing some type of cold that seems to be a mild version of what almost killed me in January. It wasn't because I had stopped writing, though now I've had to stop getting up early in the morning so I can try to cram as much sleep in my day as possible.
I'm guessing it's because I got cocky. I felt untouchable, so I definitely got touched. I tempted fate and lost.
What that means for our stories I don't really know. I just thought I should point out that I can be such an idiot sometimes.