no read

I still don't have a computer. It was supposed to come back tonight, and it did, briefly, but things weren't making themselves correct. It had to be whisked away again. Maybe I'll see it tomorrow? I hope it calls first. Girl, I need to wash my hair.

Really, after the initial two or three days of internet detox, it hasn't been that bad. I'm an adaptable species like that. I roll with the punches.

When you think about it, one person rolling and another person punching doesn't make much sense. That's something little kids would do. They don't make sense either.

Yeah. I can live without the internet. Like I'm doing right now, on my dad's laptop, as it burns through my thighs. You know what I wish I could live without? Facebook. It's making a fool of me. If I'm not losing a game of Scrabulous or writing inane comments on the wall of some person or other, I'm sending a too-long "personal message" with a request for confirmation of friendship. Facebook makes for an unsexy future. See Star Trek. Voyager. Why I friend the non-friends I friend, and ignore the non-friends that friend me is up for debate. It's embarrassing, actually. I think the excitement of discovery takes over when I come across a one-time acquaintance and see their little picture and their little non-threatening name. I get very thrilled and triumphant about it. I'm like the girl in Jurassic Park when she hacks the system towards the end. The system is these twelve, beige, three-dimensional blocks on a grid. Wait, I know this! I know this! The dinosaurs in that movie still don't look ridiculous to me but I can't stand that one scene. Despite which, on Facebook? I become that girl. Then I wake up the next morning and regret it, because nobody likes being reminded of the past, do they? Really? I do. I'm a sucker for the past, no matter how sorry it be. Gimme dat past. I'll take it and mash it up like a dog does a blanket and then settle in for a nice dwell.

Well. Whatenvangelion. Tomorrow is another chance to shine my brightest, nay?

This will be a shocker, but my last post was written while I was under the influence of sleeping pills. I remember typing it out and feeling like you do in a dream when you need to run but can't. That slow, underwater jog. I don't know why I took the pills before taking up the blog. I think I forgot I'd taken them, officer. They read to me like flat Pepsi, now. Not even Coke, and a flat Coke is disappointing, at least, because it once had potential. Flat Pepsi is just Pepsi gone all flat. Thesis statement: I can't disassociate posts from the why I feel as I write them, even if they don't take much writing. I never understood how to work a thesis statement, neither.

I've been dealing with this virus in my head, lately. That sounds like a description of bad feelings, unfortunately, but I mean a literal virus in my throat and sinus... es. Passages. Ahem hem. It's been getting worse and worse for more than a week now, despite everything I throw at it. I've been gargling salt and sucking Halls and scarfing Cold FX and Dispel Invasion (Korean pellets, smell bad), and today Marian found me some Acai berry drink at Capers, but nothing works. My throat even looks bad in a mirror, to me, and to me all throats look bad in a mirror, but this is different. It's a pain in my ass, metaphorically. I hate being sick all the time. Especially now, during the holidays with all the running around and talking. Talking hurts. I'll have to go to the doctor if it gets worse but what can she do? I want somebody to just lance it. Lop it off, whatever. That whole back of throat, sinus-y area. So I guess I want to lose the stuff behind the face, as well, because that hurts too. Let's just keep the top bit of the brain and my face hanging down like a curtain. I'll eat through the stump of my neck, like the chicken that lived for fifteen days after its head was cut off. Which isn't true, I'm sure. Rural myth.

Hack wheeze. Moody bloogs. Fun to write. Bad to read. NO READ! I need to go take some sleeping pills. Excuse me.

P.S. Facebook can be fun, I can behave pleasantly, and my throat can be not hurting. If I've suggested otherwise, I'm a liar. Thighs on fire.