brain still fried

Graceland, Paul Simon



Tuesday 9 April 2002

crack, dammit

I just went back and reread my entry from last night, and I realized just how many typos are in it. Just so y'all think I am not on crack (not like that would matter in the grand scheme of my pysche, but anyway), I was sick last night and not quite in my right mind. And my only complaint about this html editor is that it has no spell check. How retarded, and I know, I should've switched years ago, but this one has nice little color coded tags, and besides, I am a creature of habit.

I still am pretty sick but I managed to actually make it out of the apartment and to school today. Thank god. Nothing sucks more than being sick alone. When all you really want is Sprite and saltines and some really strong cold medicine, and it's not to be found in your cabinets, there's no one to run out and get them for you, so you're left to bitch and whine to your boyfriend and attempt to guilt trip him into taking off work and coming down to nurse you back to health. Blah. But I was a big girl, and a grown up, and I did that stiff upper lip thing and now it's 3:43 EST on Wednesday morning and I feel definitely more chipper than I should.

Still no bed. I'm getting very cranky about this. My neck is even crankier. My happiness and satisfaction in my place of residence depends mainly on two things: the bed and the bathtub. If the bed is soft and large with many pillows, and if the bathtub is free of mildew and those little pink non-slip butterflies that scratch my ass (an abundance of hot water doesn't hurt either), then I am a happy camper. And right now my bed is a nest of blankets on the floor, and my bathtub is small, mildew-blackened around the edges with those goddamned fucking butterflies on its floor, scatching my ass. So I am not a happy camper.

This entry should put to rest any doubts you had about my ability as a writer. Goodnight.