I am here.  Here and feeling a bit like a Who from Horton Hears a Who. 

Floating aimlessly through the air in my own world, in my own head so that no one can hear me, the thoughts never making it out of my head, off my little bit of world floating in the ether. 

It is cold today.  16 degrees below zero when I woke up this morning and my body protested loudly when I tried to move.  I have yet to find a weather that suits this stupid disease.  I now cross ‘artic’ off my list.

My furnace has decided to make my life more interesting.  There is a small red hose behind the cover plate that connects to a hole about the size of a bb pellet.  Every few days, that tiny little opening fills up with a hard, chalky substance and stops the furnace from heating the air. 

Until the part comes in, I have to teeter down the stairs, avoiding the herd of cats that rush with glee down the stairs between my feet, to remove the little red hose and take a thin drill bit and gently clean out the crusty gunk.  I then have to round the cats up and drive them back up the stairs or they roam from room to room meowing to hear their voices echo.  

Teeth chattering, shattering cold, still lost in my head, and surrounded by what I can only guess are the reincarnated souls of vaudeville comedians in the guise of the cats and I am thinking of Horton Hears a Who and not Cat in the Cat.  

Drifting.  It has to be because of the sensation of drifting through the days like that dust spec rather than sitting glumly at a window, watching it rain and having chaos break out around me while the search ensues for a moss covered three handled family grudunza.