I don't know what 3 days of sickening, comatose bedrest does for you, but for me it fucks with the head. I cant listen to music or talk on the phone or curse or drink or smoke. I'm a fucking mess.

It makes me read books and want to buy books I'm hearing about again. I don't care that the shit thing by Sebastian Junger isn't worth wrapping fish with, nor do I care that the Jane Smiley remainder I'm enjoying has more bad sex scenes than my high school years.

There's this one I've gotta get on family business, and the other, the must have, that Richard and Larissa have finished translating so that now I can read it.

I'm sick of being in bed and miss people. I haven't seen people since I sat among the class of '66 at Cal's travesty last Saturday, and learned, among other things, there are no fat people in China, and Tibetans make everything they own out of yak. Yes, that is what I said, yak.

Tomorrow I'll go into the office. I'll flirt with a couple girls, drink my soup for lunch. I'll rally, for this weekend is for those about to rock.

FIRE!