It's official!

I'm as sick as a dog. My temperature's hit 101.5.

Fahrenheit, that is. That's about 38.6 if you're nasty.

I mean, unamerican.

Actually, I may have meant both. Who can tell? My brain's in the
broiler, so I may not be thinking right.

There's a helicopter with a spotlight currently circling the greater
northridge area right now. You know what that means. Somebody's
running, scared, and dangerous.

(See: "The Devil You Know" by Todd Snider)

I dread having to work tomorrow morning because I feel so crappy. I'm
hoping the wine will help.

When I was working in Syracuse, I had a terrible cough, and this old
Southern black lady told me it would clear up with a glass of
blackberry brandy. I think I remember it working.

Self medicating is one of my favorite pastimes.

Another problem with being sick is that it tend to send my blood
glucose levels all crazy. That's no fun. I get all loopy and sweaty
and shaky. It happened, like, a week ago. I started feeling a little
weird at work, so I tested, like I'm supposed to, and my BG level was
at 43! That was ridiculous.

Well, I'm going to lie down. I'm not feeling so good.

I hope you're well.