Oh man.
My uterus has decided that this is an excellent opportunity to inflict me with the curse, being that I’m bedridden and coughing out various special effects from 80’s horror movies. I think my lungs are filled with sand paper. Note to self: close mouth when swimming at beach. Thankfully, however, the cramps are not that bad. Maybe it’s all relative.
I did manage to make myself breakfast of scrambled eggs, whole grain toast and orange juice this morning, which is a big improvement from yesterday’s dry hamburger bun and bottled water. However, I had just applied ample Vicks stinky greasy stuff to my chest and then ate toast. Now I have toast crumbs adhered to my rather impressive cleavage. Oh, for want of Russell Crowe wearing a bird costume!
Martha Stewart is losing her appeal. I called her a raggy anal-retentive bitch this morning as she showed the proper way to make a rhododendron bouquet. She just smiled and explained about different hosta leaves in her pausing lilting manner. Then I told her that she was frigid and collected depression glass as sexual release. Then I coughed. She didn’t care and instead made her own chicken stock.
I am sweating so much that I’m afraid to walk barefoot through the kitchen, lest I create a Slip N’Slide of perspiration.
Dirty Dancing: Best. 80’s. Movie. Ever.
Oh, piffle, I know that it’s set in 1963. But that doesn’t detract from how great it is. I also watched Pretty In Pink yesterday and got ticked at Molly Ringwald for not taking Duckie over stinky annoying Blaine. Stupid movie.
Ricky Fitts, my TiVo, taped Joe Vs. The Volcano for me. It’s pausing right now as I had to get up and change my pajamas. Damn toast crumbs.
I thought about the term ‘sick’ last night, during one of my many waking coughing moments. I’m sick. It can mean that I’m perverted, it can that I’m disgusting, it can mean so many things. Or all of the above.
Last night, I had a weird dream. I dreamt that I was driving out to the High Maintenance Burger place in Dykesville (yes, there is such a town) and I was trying to drive the Monte up this hill but it just didn’t have enough power. So instead I stopped at a church there and walked inside (why, I have no idea, I just did, it’s a dream, it’s supposed to be surreal). There, a choir practice was just ending. Mechaieh was there, and I said ‘Hey, Mechaieh!’ and she said ‘Hey, Weet!’ and then I saw a group of Diarylanders hanging around. Apparently, this was an All Diaryland All The Time church there in Dykesville. So Dichroic recognized me and somehow I knew who she was. So she waved me over to where a couple Diarylanders were gathered and I walked over to them, but somehow I was holding a blanket that my Mafia Grandma had given me when I was 12. It was a plush kind of horrible 70’s throw, meant for the living room of bachelor men, in brown and cr’me, showing a grizzly bear on it. I’m still perplexed by that particular gift, actually. So I was holding it, but then I decided to wrap it around myself, like a skirt. And I walked up to these folks and said ‘Hi! I’m (real first name). But my page is Weetabix.diaryland.com.’ And WickedSezzy said ‘What’s your name?’ So I repeated my first name. And she said, ‘What’s your whole name?’ So I told her. And everyone was nonplussed. I think that SkiBigSky, SaveCraig, TranceJen and oddly enough, Spex were there too. Apparently, I had just missed Widower. And I was just weirded out, because what were all of these people doing in Dykesville? And what the heck was wrong with my car?
See, people, drugs are bad. Codeine is bad. Just stick with Triaminic and all will be right with the world. Gah. I’m going back to bed with Ricky.
