I've been sick for two weeks and it's hilarious. I sense my immune system is trying to communicate some illness of the psyche; alas, I was well aware of the malady that befalls me. I remember a time thousands of years ago when, so misled by sitcoms, I had assumed daily stress and grim perseverance were badges of maturity and action. I could almost laugh now to think that, "in spite of" my constant chain-smoking, insomnia-exacerbating stress, I remain as painfully ignorant and directionless as ever--the operative would being COULD. Instead, I read mind-numbingly bad novels by Danielle Steele or however the fuck it's spelled to focus my rage on something else.
I'm looking forward to Paris, where I can spend my mornings smoking in public and going to museums and my Every Single Waking Moment drinking and drinking delicious wine.

I want Mama Fu's Pad Thai so badly right now. I will burn down the restaurant that took the old building over, even if it IS a Flying Biscuit.

Almost forgot:

But no, regretting
each unfortunate event misleads
one sleepless night to sleepless night
wishing sleeplessness on you