F.F.A.

I have contracted a cold.  Some evil Spanish rhinovirus.

We had a thunderstorm last night and the rain fell hard.

Our TV default here - an Internet based service - was taken down by a computer virus.

I'm reading a book set in the future where the ravaging of the planet by man has progressed to a point that a lot of areas are no longer livable.  It's set in two places: an area not far from The New City and the actual area of Vacation Town.  It's been somewhat disconcerting having a writer describe, in apocalyptic terms, two areas with which I'm very familiar.  Weirdly, we got a call from our landlord or caretaker or manager or whatever you call the dude who's in charge of the rental of our land in the trailer park, asking us to call "as soon as possible."  Imagining awful things - our trailer sucked into the stratosphere by a tornado or swallowed by a sinkhole or burnt in a fire - we call, to be told that the weeds in our lot have become a problem.

Last night, in my feverish sleep, I got these two incidents mixed together, waking up with an indeterminate sense that something was wrong.  I have been besieged by a bout of Free Floating Anxiety, the state where worry about odd things becomes real.  It has been a disconcerting day.  I really hate FFA.