21 June, 1997

Drank 28 ounces of Gatorade, ate 5 crackers (bet you're dying to know what kind), and slept 18 hours. The sneezes are back, as is the runny nose. Cough is no longer "barking" down in my chest, though. It's now "productive." How disgustingly nifty.

Tried to deal with real food, but it flipped my stomach inside out despite the Compazine. Trudged back to the Gatorade and crackers, where I was greeted with a gut-wrenching (er...perhaps literally) "You can never leave us!"

I am so goddamned (sorry, Al) sick of being sick. How the hell did I get so worn down? It wasn't like I was doing anything, for chrissakes. Oh, oops, I forgot: I breathed. Well, there you go. Institutionalise me at once!

All Type A me can think of is the heap of crap I should be doing. Bills, emails, critiques, floggings (or should that be "cloggings?" Oh, I am just too punny for myself). I lay on the couch, half-dead (don't ask which half), and seriously doubt I'd be antsier (it is so a word) if my panties were bunched in my butt and I had a hangnail.

So...Sat my fat arse down and started working on the crits. Yeah, major mistake. Bingo. Grand Prize. I was winded and dizzy before the modem had finished connecting. Wrote (if I may use this term loosely) the first critique. What a piece of manure. Not the site I'm critiquing, no. Me. Gage is a dung pile.

And I promised the little critters their shit would be served yesterday. Wonderful. And I'm their "fearless leader?!"

I can't deal with this any more right now. I want to say really doofy things like, "My inner child wants to spank your spurious nature." Makes absolutely no sense. I think the fever's back, or something. Yeah, that sounds like a plausible excuse. Hi, I'm feverish, want a critique?

They should revoke my membership to English Majors Anon.