Because I don't feel like getting up and have mostly exhausted my patience with lying-down activities, I'm going to say stuff right now, while lying down, as another activity for which I do not have to be erect. Erect, like an erection, like a steeple, like an erect steeple, is too much effort.

Yesterday I started to feel myself getting sick. I went "Oh FUCKING SWEATY BALLSACKS NO" and infused myself with various unscientifically-supported Stop-Your-Cold-Before-It-Starts-or-Shorten-The-Length-or-Make-the-Symptoms-Not-So-Hellishly-Disgusting remedies. I can't say whether they are working in a weird sort of way, or if this is just Something That is Not a Usual Cold. I am not congested (yet?) and my throat doesn't hurt (yet?) but I am coughing and physically zombified and all my muscles and joints and skin-bits are rampant with Sparklers of Contagion. You know what I mean, when you're ultra-sensitive to touch and temperature and your inner being is painfully sparkly like a blacksmith pounding on hot metal which is sparking and you're like EEEHhhhh ow no touch no move bad guuuhhh. I think in medical literature it is called "aching" but it's not aching, it's demons slapping your bones with sparklers and hot metal. And you're like FUCK YOU DEMONS THE POWER OF TOM CRUISE COMPELS YOouuu I'm too tired for exorcism today.

I also may have a low-grade fever (I don't own a thermometer) but at any rate I'm not delirious so I have no excuse for the diarrhea that is being squelchily farted from my typing internet mouth. Except I do because I'm tired. And tired as we know equals drunk you so can such my drunk infectious boobies. I can prove it because I've fallen down more than usual today (apparently the stairs become more slippery when you have whatever disease I have). Which hurt more, because of the Sparkler Demons.

On the plus side, my unwillingness to move and touch things has led to another rekindling of Reading for Pleasure, which in my past has been abandoned and rekindled multiple times. The past two times it was rekindled by Walter Moers and whoever his heroic translator is, who makes the giant tomes of German ridiculous fairy-tale Monty Python fantasy epic intelligible to my stupid monolingual ass. (Unilingual? One-lingual. Standalone maverick badass Chuck Norris-lingual. I only speak English, is the point. I'm sorry, I'm a retarded American, and all my attempts to learn other languages have been half-assed. Although, how many of you can say "Heffalump" in Russian? THAT'S RIGHT. SLONOPOTAM BITCHES. (I can also say "I don't drink" but I think "Heffalump" would help me connect with people more in the event of my being in Russia.))

So anyway Walter Moers writes these books and they are awesome. I've only read one so far which is called The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear and now I'm into Rumo (The Adventures of, possibly) and they are ridiculous and sweet and I would make out with them if they were people. Other authors that are awesome include Christopher Moore and Jasper Fforde. You should read that shit.

And of course Roald Dahl. If you missed out on Roald Dahl in your youth then you go get your ass to a book purveyor. I was super sad when I found out he was dead and I couldn't write him a letter telling him he was a pimp of the written word (not in those terms exactly because I was like seven or something at the time but that was the gist).

Ah, the days when "pimp" was not in my vocabulary. When the internet was not the source of my information. When I made fun of fat people openly. Yea verily the innocuousness of a child, who doth not know what they do when they pop a diaperless squat in the middle of an airport.

Now I've lain on the floor too long and my ass is seizing up, so I will stop verbally pooping in your face and go off to complete the monumental task of putting shit in the dryer.