SICK SICK SICK

Sighwhinemurmurmutter. This illness thing, I do not approve.

Began feeling a tetch queasy in my last hour of work Saturday night; the queas proliferated as I returned home until it got, well, explosive. TMI, I suppose.

Today has been spent alternately sleeping, wandering around the apartment in a fever dream, sleeping, taking part in said explosive queas (though that's over, I think), and mostly staying awake for Tin Man. Solid food intake has been one banana and a Granny Smith apple, because everything else sounded disgusting.

Also learned that, since I am so seldom ill, all the medication in the place is long expired.

Ah well. I shall be better tomorrow, unless I am not.

I'M NOT DEAD ...

... nor even half-dead. A quarter-dead, that's a bit warmer.

Actually, I'm much better. No more explosive quease; now it's just a matter of getting over that kind of disembodied feeling you get when you're coming off an illness and you're not quite there.

Once I get more energy, I'll make a post about this past weekend's FUMP package concert in Rochester, ably organized by the amiably demented wormquartet. Until then, my observation: There really needs to be a band named "DutchBoy Enema."

That is all.

Sounds & Images: "Don't Shoot" (Rob Balder)
State O'Mind: Considerably less bleary