Tuesday, April 1, 2003

even the flinstones had their silly phone, with a bird or whatever

I am getting my internet fix here in the library. I am a sick addict. Two days without internet and I have to know if I have gotten any new e-mails, if I am missing something. I got one real e-mail, from Beki, from Italy, telling me about picking her up from the airport. Nothing exciting.

Our phone line is down for whatever reasons that Verizon will hopefully determine when they finally get their sorry fee-charging asses out to our house, two days after our phones stopped working.

At work, I watch the news and get alert when I hear stories of SARS, wonder if I have those symptoms, I feel how much my throat hurts and wonder if that is what I have, if I am going to die from this mystery flu. My throat is sore and I don't know why. It is not like a normal cold. No snot. Just soreness. I haven't made any recent trips to China or Hong Kong, but I know I have it, I do. I am going to die. Alas. And I panic because that's what they want, they want me to tremble in fear and continue watching bombs dropping and more flu stories to find out about my fate. They are going to let me know. Well, look here, cable affilate based in Atlanta, Georgia, when I get ready for bed tonight and masturbate until I fall asleep, then I will give you what the word is, what my fate will be. Stay tuned, more coverage cumming up.

I am reading Oscar Wilde now for the first time and I am finding it a delicious pleasure that I wish I would have partaken in earlier. There are all these secret books out there, hiding, waiting to be read. So many. There are even more waiting to be written. But first, those that need to be read. So many.

I drink lots of tea. It helps.

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