There's just something about Annie Lennox, isn't there? I think if I could have swapped bodies for a day with anyone in the 80s, it would have been her. Of course, since I'm a bit younger, she would have ended up in a playground on the California coast using iceplant for pretend chalk, but I'm thinking she could have managed. (Yep, I'm sure that's what she was waiting for. Swapping bodies with an uncool ten-year old with glasses.)
Recently she allowed DJ Earworm (that guy is a genius, dude) to have access to her masters so he could make this mashup. It's awesome. If you haven't heard it, please enjoy a Sunday tune.
As for me, the house is clean, I'm recovering slowly from a migraine (guess the med levels aren't right yet–CRAP! but hope springs eternal), and I'm raring to write, starting tomorrow. I'm totally irked that I lost today's potential work but I am pleased to say that even with a migraine, there are epiphanies to be found lying in bed, thinking about the closing scenes of a book. I got some good work done today while lying in a dark room. I mean it. I don't recommend it, but it worked for me.
Also, another damn historical suckered me in. DON'T TELL ANYONE. Sherry Thomas's Not Quite A Husband. I downloaded a free chapter, and liked it enough to buy it. And then I started reading, and then devoured it in about a day and a half. I was PASSIONATE about it. What IS it about her? Fever and quinine, India, sepoys, uprisings, gun battles — somehow she evoked a reaction from me that I haven't felt since I read M.M. Kaye as an impressionable fourteen-year old. (You know how Harry Potter makes you turn the pages? That's kind of how Thomas writes. Not with obvious cliffhangers, but with a fascinating pacing that I'd kill to bottle and sell. Or just use myself.)
That is all. Lala is home. There is homemade chicken tikka masala to eat, stat.
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