15 June, 2009

Hopefully this will conclude the food poisoning saga.

Fuck. You.
Went to bed about 2300, only to have Georgie bring boss-lady home at about midnight, clomp clomp clomping down the hall. Said, "Hell with it," put my pants back on, turned off the BBC World Service, and went down to the basement to start mixing. Wondered where the cat was, stepped outside to ask Georgie if she let the cat out, boss-lady shot me this pissy-sneer because, you know, me walking around without a shirt on a hot Summer night in my fucking house where you woke me really warrants that look.
I swear to god if there is one, the only thing that explains this shit lately is that I'm the crazy one and the rest of the world is completely sane.
Went back down to the basement, started feeling queasy, Georgie yelled down to the basement to tell me that the cat was back inside. OK, so the cat was back inside. Said she was going to bed. I think I was up for another half hour after that point, so about 0100. Woke up this morning with the cat next to me. He shot me this look as though to say, "You kept me up all night with your jimmy legs and incessant somniloquism. By the way, you never told me you could pray in Latin."
Gassy, very gassy. I think it's finally leaving my system. Let this be a lesson to you about ranch dressing: "Sell By" does mean "Use By".

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