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Saturday, Sept. 25, 2004 / 2:05 p.m. ~Eine Kleine Cross-Postage~ My old friend Brent seems to have a direct psychic connection to my 'wild hair' moods. Thusly, he sent me a text message yesterday (oh, how I dig the text messaging, but I need to change my text message notification tune soon) asking what was up, what were the plans, which always makes me want to ask, "Where's the girlfriend?". We did the messaging thing for a while yesterday afternoon, me leaving my phone on in the cube, carrying it with me when I got online on my break, and I told him I'd suddenly begun not to feel so hot, but we made plans anyway. As it was, yesterday began with me feeling like some rocket shot from some cannon (do rockets shoot from cannons?), cranking up the "Futurhythms" from the CD drive, uncontrollably moving about in my chair during the early morning hours in my cubicle, wanting desperately to go dancing, to inhale massive quantities of second hand smoke, to drink cheap imported beer and make eye contact with handsome men from across a crowded dance floor. Brent felt it, psychically, I know he did. We've danced before, we've gone out and about and done crazy things, bar hopped, drunk too much, and smoked too many foreign substances, even cigars, he knows me, he has a direct hookup, a link, somehow. But, as often happens, this crazed (fertility-coinciding) wild hair mood of mine precipitated an 'oh my god, it feels like I'm "coming down with something"' mood which followed closely behind. Weak, dizzy, that crunchy neck turning into a massive headache spreading to my forehead, that hot blood boiling feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach, that "I know I've got a fever, even if the thermometer does not agree" feeling. So it was I 'messaged' that I wasn't feeling too hot, but yes, let's have a drink, let's do the dance club thing, let's, sure, okay. And I came home after work, fed the cats and lay on the sofa trying to nap, only to 'nap', which turned into me sleeping through the second half of "Good god, he should SO not resign amidst the 'controversy', are you fucking crazy?!" Dan Rather's CBS Evening News, and then all the way through everything after, until the cats woke me up by bouncing off of me repeatedly, around 10:00. More text messaging ensued, me not even apologizing for canceling, just writing, "i'm exhausted", not even bothering to capitalize this time. His response? "ok" I feel guilty, but then again I don't. I told him how it was, and yes, the wild hair was there, but we should have seized upon it, at 8:30 a.m. Now? Logy, achy, headachy, weak, a bit dizzy, not horribly nauseous like last night when my late night Stouffer's Lean Cuisine Basil Chicken with Angel Hair Pasta sank to that same blood boiling pit of my stomach and threatened to remove itself forcibly, but just feeling like utter crap. And why? I'm thinking exposure to the women at work, who are in turn exposed to their children at home, who are in turn exposed to their friends at school, who are all carriers of unknown and mutated viruses the likes of which modern medicine has never before seen. Tonight the coworker and I go to the Fair. Yes, folks, a real Fair! I want to ride the Ferris Wheel, and puke on someone below (accidentally, of course). I think corn dogs are in order. Cost of the War in Iraq
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