the sick man

Ah man I'm a sick man. Dizzy and sub-fevered, rough-throated and wrapped in the perceptual gauze of immune response. I'd love to write about my vacation and the wild+wacky adventures of the Family Palinode on the potholed mountain roads and foggy jungles of Costa Rica - the fear of eyelash vipers! the deadly waltz of two buses passing each other on a hairpin turn! - but when I'm sick I can't avoid the topic of my sickness. I think that people like it when I'm so ill that I'm throwing up, because at least then I'm not talking about it. And I'm in a different room. On the whole, people like it when I'm sick and in a different room. But I should stop talking about this, because eventually you'll want to be at a different website altogether. I'll be sick on this page, puking up my pathological obsession with my own pathology, and you'll be sitting comfortably over at Finslippy or Schmutzie, chuckling over exploits.

On today's breakfast menu: Chuckling over Exploits. With a side of Fried Brouhaha.

I promise all y'all that when my body has worked its mojo on the little sub-seeable invaders dancing with my bacteriophages, I'll regale with you with insights, oversights, Lite Brites, and so much more.