eat the blanket

Eat the blanket, don't want to eat the blanket. No, you don't want to eat the blanket. Go next door.

Wild dreams, must be the drugs. The room is vibrating... feel warm...

m.

happy happy joy joy

When I was typing in the URL for this blog on Dad's laptop, my muscular coördination and my lack of familiarity with the niceties of the English language conspired to have me type in "blogsport.com" rather than "blogspot.com," a mistake which took me on a weird and wonderful virtual journey. Try it yourself! Type in "blogsport" and see what happens. Then tell me what it is you find, since I don't altogether understand what is happening to me these days.

It's a rainy, sunny afternoon. The sky is bright and cloudy, exactly like the opening credits of "The Simpsons." It's remarkable how often reality looks just like television.

The Dad's coming near to see what his son's pounding on his laptop. I have to go to nickjr.com and pretend to be enthralled by Boohbah in order not to arouse his suspicions. Be back soon.

There's no prize for an early diagnosis

For a doctor who has earned a reputation with my family for talking a lot while saying very litte, that seven word phrase is depressingly meaningful. Still, supposedly four times out of five this is still just the flu. I hope.

m.

I'm not cranky

That's what I said. And it was true when I said it. But the rest of the day I was a total cranky bastard.

m.