My English muffin is ready. My baby is awake. My wife is home from work and her friend from Florida is in town. They’re rapping about zoning laws and real estate right now. I’m adding nothing to the conversation. I feel a little gross today. I have kind of an upset stomach that’s ruining my whole world view. It’s making me feel gross. I have to go to work and I can’t really concentrate. I ate a few dried apricots and aside from the fact that they have the exact same consistency of earlobes (which makes them fun to chew if you’re not feeling gross) I was revolted by the idea that if I end up barfing them up today, it’s gonna be intense and difficult. The rubberiness, you know? Oh, man. That’s enough to really make me sick.
Anyway, I’m distracted and not terribly interested in telling all you people about anything today. Any long treatise about ass fucking will only serve to push me closer to the point at which I inevitably barf up dried apricots at work when someone orders a huge bowl of coleslaw, or a packet of mayo to squeeze into their bloody mary. Any discussion of Bukkake (which is the ancient Japanese art of smothering some lucky girl in a gigantic amount of loads) will only push me closer to the edge of no longer being able to keep this stomach full of earlobes down as the guy with the freshly sutured lip orders a gin and milk. Any talk of inserting gigantic and painful things into the ass cavity will only serve to remind me that if things go differently than I expect today, I may end up sitting there, shitting uncontrollably after sneezing a chocolate squirt all over my underwear and down the leg of my pants. ANY talk of felching will only exacerbate the feeling of loneliness that comes with feeling less than a hundred percent at work.
These are those moments, everyone. Those moments where you feel just enough like shit that it will definitely make the day last a lifetime, but where you don’t quite feel bad enough to justify the amount of complaining you know you’re gonna inevitably feel like doing all day.
This sucks. Have I mentioned that I hate my job and that this isn’t gonna make it any better? Well, at least I’m not on tour. In Ft. Collins, Colorado, I was once so sick that I had no choice but to just shit my pants over and over again on stage. In Florida I once had a lung infection so bad that in ninety degree weather, I was, until the moment we went on stage in the van with the heat on under three sleeping bags. I’ve barfed off the stage more than a few times due to illness. This is going to suck, but it’s not going to be that bad. I mean fuck. I’m not even really sick. Just gross…uh oh. Gotta run. Have a good weekend.