Ex. HAUS. Ted.

Here at the job- barely- as I recover from an astoundingly quick onset of food poisoning yesterday (I remember thinking as I typed yesterday's entry on Zorikh's computer, preperatory to heading out the door, "Jeez- what did I have for lunch, a kzin...?"). Tired, sore, sprung- feeling, in short like this guy, or as though I'd been auditioning for a road company version of The Exorcist. One odd, happily distracting note: in looking through my apartment mate's high school yearbook, I came across a photo of... Lucy Liu. Yes, that Lucy Liu, 80s hair and all. Her advice for future generations? "You'll probably make a fool out of yourself by using the wrong fork." *user attempts to work up a response, then remembers that the five-year goal in his yearbook entry was given as "Bringing Jim Morrison back to life through the power of Dianetics," and hastily goes back to drinking Gatorade.*

(No, it didn't work, although I did find religion along the way. That settles it; I'm definitely still sick.)

l

...rolling like thunder under the covers indeed, and not in a good way

On the average night at work, I can expect to get somewhere around half-a-dozen to a dozen jobs; at busy times like this one, thirty isn't unknown. And now, with me sitting here like a wrung-out washcloth as I recover from food poisoning, feeling as though I have the world's worst tequila hangover- only cubed- and with a skull and mouth that feel as though an army had been bivouacing in them, how many jobs do I have to trudge my way through before I can ooze my way home to bed...?


One. All three pages of it. it'll be here any minute.


Whew.