06.May.2003

i am feeling the bad kind of fever

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christ.

I was in the midst of typing up a lengthy and vitriolic diatribe (Let's hear it for redundancy!) about anthrax, infections, boredom, alcohol, sex, this constricting alcove, my fragile immune system, tension headaches, this stifling domicile, the fact I've quite horribly knocked myself off schedule to the point that sleeping is an unfortunate impossibility, pyromaniac predilections, poppy seeds and heroin, drug-tests and intoxication, and the fact my throat is producing its own version of anthrax, once again, and my ears are filling with the same virus.

However, Internet Explorer inexplicably shut down and requested I send an error report to Microsoft.

Sure.

I'll send an "error report" to Microsoft.

Listen, Bill Fucking Gates, you are not being paid sixty-four million dollars to temporize anti-bug theories in lieu of correcting the bugs. If you were my employee, I would force your son to bring me to orgasm sixty-four million times and then promptly fire you once the afterglow turned back into surly normality.

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I'm coming down with another flu. My immune system is failing. It's affecting my mood and its subsequent desires for extreme liberation, as well as ripping into the nerves of my gums. The sun is coming relentlessly, and I'm pressing a cold wash-cloth against my face while staring at this filthy keyboard.

I need an upgraded central nervous system.

There is no way in hell I'm going to Microsoft for that.

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time & machine