(no subject)

Whoa, man.

I'm like really sick. The kind of sick where you feel utterly stoned out of your mind BEFORE you make yourself chug the Nyquil. I was hallucinating Nazi UFOs landing in the yard and storming the house because they wanted to put my boobs (which ache like hell) in a waffle iron. I kept flailing around and moaning and waking J. up so I said fuckit and came here to SHARE MY MISERY WITH YOU ALL.

*coughs up a lung*

One of you bastards come over here and make me some food. I am too weak to go downstairs and fix some cream of wheat. I'm still mildly delerious to the point of being maudlin, I.E. I am slurring "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" like Bette Midler at the end of The Rose.

*sprays the monitor with lungbutter*

*hack*

(no subject)

*phlegm globber spew*

Yeah.

(no subject)

Dear baby cthulu jesus,

let me stay alive until J. gets home with my goodies and can make me some tea.

*hork hork hork* *glark* *pglahk*

and let him not object to my desire for toast with butter and grated horseradish all over. In the name of Kali the Destroyer, amen.