TRAIL OF TEARS

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I haven't thrown in the towel yet, but I have the towel sitting within reach, just in case. I woke up yesterday morning feeling like I had died on Thursday and nobody had discovered the body yet. The unpleasantness was compounded by the fact that I woke up in a strange woman's bed.

As entertaining as it would be to end things there, journalistic integrity compels me to admit that in fact I was just catsitting for the strange woman, did not see her, and the only bodily fluids that were exchanged were strictly between me and certain porcelain fixtures. Struggling up Colonial Avenue back to my apartment, unshaven, moaning in self-pity, staggering erratically under several hundred pounds of computer equipment, I elicited a symphony of 'tsk's from second-floor windows as tiny old ladies peered out from behind their lace curtains and lamented the gradual decline of their neighborhood.

I'm counting on something called Theraflu to maintain a weak simulation of life, so that some young medical hothead won't jump the gun and pronounce me dead. Assuming, that is, that I'm not really deceased and just dreaming that I'm alive and working on my blog. But then, a dead brain can't dream, can it? Oh wait, Republicans dream. Ah ha ha ha ha! Good one, Sparky.... Hey! False alarm! I laugh, therefore I am. It is decreed that I must keep on keepin' on. Why aren't I happier about this?