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Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001 - 7:47 A.M.
The Affair
Nyquil. The nite time, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, achy, stuffy head fever so you can pass out and sleep so deep you didn't notice that a cement truck backed in during the night and filled your sinus cavities medicine.
I am afraid to drive to work today. I am afraid that when I get to that country road, where you-know-what happened, the road will be lined with tiny little animals all sporting back arm bands, their little paws raised and clenched in defiance. As I drive past, trying to be nonchalant ("Whatchoo looking at, chipmunk?"), I hear a faint, high pitched anthem....
Maybe I should call in sick.
For those concerned, I am NOT taking the "X" while on the cold medication. I am not actively seeking out a stroke, thank you very much. Digital bastard is rewarding me for not slipping even once yesterday (even passing up birthday cake and ice cream at school) by giving me BACK another 2 pounds. Fuck you digibast. I know what you are up to. I have your little game figured out.
MOTH tipped it off the other day. He announced quite brazenly that he now weighs ### which is LESS than me. Oh good. He's more than a foot taller, considers himself fat, yet weighs less than me. Then it hits me. He's fucking the digibast! That BASTARD! Oddly, I don't blame MOTH. I know how seductive the digibast can be. I should have seen the signs. The subtle adding on of pounds despite my being good. I see how MOTH gets up during the night for milk and cookies and is rewarded. I now know that digibast has been giving me the MOTH's added poundage.
Well, lemma tell ya somthin' buck-o. I know how to use a screwdriver and I'm not afraid! I know where your batteries are stored! Lithium my ass.
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