Today we're doing what I would tell anyone else who isn't in the mood to write: just start fuckin' typing.

I have been ill for the past couple of days. I felt it creeping up on me near the end of Saturday and I fought it enough on Sunday to go to lunch (Bob's Big Boy) and shopping (Ikea) with my friend Jean (*). She bought a sofa table and a computer desk, asking my advice all the while. I don't know dick about furniture, so I tend to think in terms of functionality. I think she went with the right choices, though, as they match her decor (which consists of natural wood, black, and chrome). Since she bought lunch, I insisted on helping her move the new purchases inside, rather than attempting to do it herself or having someone else do it. Felt good. Of course, when I got home, crawled back into bed since she'd called around 10:50am. I slept until about 7:45pm, which is an approximation based on the fact that '60 Minutes' was still on the tail end of Lesley Stahl's piece on the NCAA and hadn't yet made it to Andy Rooney's bit which always falls within the last ten minutes of the hour. Thanks to my parents, I've been watching "60 Minutes" on Sunday nights for so many years that I expect I'll probably be doing so long after I leave this house if I happen to be home at the time. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing; there really isn't anything much better on at that time and it is informative. It's one of the few bits of television news that actually qualifies as journalism. For your viewing information, the new season of HBO's prison drama "Oz" has started. If you've never watched it and you've got HBO, I highly recommend checking it out. Why previous seasons aren't as widely available on DVD as "The Sopranos" is beyond me. I mean, sure, I'll grant that it has a 'soap opera' feel to it, but shit, the acting is of equal calibre and, IMO, it has more interesting characters because it's more of an ensemble-type show and, because virtually anything *can* happen on "Oz", it's more dramatic. Now, don't get me wrong, I *love* "The Sopranos," but there are no surprises in that universe. It's more of a brains show than a balls show, y'know?

Monday, I declined to go to karaoke 'cause I felt like hell. Ate KFC and went to sleep on faux-NyQuil. Of course, considering how I've been feeling about karaoke lately, I'm uncertain as to whether I'll go back next week. On the one hand, I love the Liquid Kitty. It has a great atmosphere, decent drinks, and it's always cool to see Wendy. On the other hand, I'm sort of sung out. I suppose I'll go back and see if they have any new songs or anything, 'cause I'm getting a bit sick of the same stuff. I only sing the songs I know and the songs I think I can handle, so that's a pretty narrow chunk out of the 15,000 or so tunes that they've got in the books. Hm. Guess it's a good thing I never tried to be a professional.

Tuesday...I slept for the entire time that sun touched the city. Declined again to go karaoke at Jillian's, since I'm still feeling hideous. In fact, I felt worse then than I did Monday. Not exactly boding well for my declaration that I'd be good to go by the weekend, but I'm sure it'll pan out. On the lighter side, I'm buying a bed. As some of you may recall, my previous mattress was anihilated by the workers who flooded the bathroom and hallway. So, I've decided that I should just bite the bullet and get myself a decent-sized bed. At least then I'll have somewhere to fuck, which will mean I'll be that much more inclined to find myself someone to fuck.
After all, if you're not fucking, you're fucking miserable. [Dispute it if you want, but those of you with journals prove my point repeatedly.] And so begins the period where I stop resisting all attempts to make my room look like a storage facility. I can only hope the change in appearance will have *some* affect on my psyche, positive or negative.

I've decided that watching movies like "The Beach" and "Fight Club" lead to potentially harmful escapist fantasies. Beware.

Additionally, there's some sort of secret message in the music of Moby and the Dust Brothers, but I haven't figured it out yet. I'll keep you posted.



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* = yes, the same Jean that ran over my foot