A toast...

I'm one shot of Nyquil removed from reality, and I'm ready for a little Edith Wharton (always best to read her in the winter--a very seasonal writer, she is), and then some serious sleep. I'm a sick person. Sore throat, the works.

I'd also like to alert everyone that today is the birthday of both Jane Austen and Beethoven. I lift my little plastic, sniffly, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy-head, fever, so-you-can-read-Edith Wharton-novels- cup to you both.

That being done, good night.