This week has been rough on me, so I did the sensible thing when things are going badly and read a lot of Jane Austen.

Shut up, Austen does make things better.

For example, sure, health-wise this has been an icky week, but I spent at least half a day reading Pride & Prejudice for the 20th time. And that gave me ample time to prefect my fake British accent by reading aloud, so there's that.

I should add that I have an awesome fake British accent. I mean it's horrible. Like worse than Renee Zellwegger in Bridget Jones bad, but I've been perfecting it's terribleness for several years.

Please don't tell me I need hobbies. That is my hobby. It's weird, sure. I don't deny that. I blame my family. They never really censured the weirdness. I'm not going to say they encouraged it, so much, as they just sort of laughed at me, rolled their eyes, and walked away without comment. I took this as their tacit acknowledgement that being weird was perfectly okay and normal was utterly and completely boring.

So blame them. In the meantime, I'm going to do a terribly practical thing and head to see a doctor. Because, while Austen can cure many things, from a broken heart to the crisis in the Middle East, turns out kidney trouble isn't her specialty.