I've been fucking sick for weeks now. It's a return to the Rachel of yester-year--and by yester-year, I mean a couple years ago--back when I got those apocalyptic colds that'd start in, oh, let's say October for shits and giggles, go all the way through till Spring, when it morphed into at least one bout of the flu, before finally settling into my usual summer allergies and/or cold.

If I was lucky, I'd get two, maybe three phlegmy-hacking-cough-free months per year. They were bliss, I tell yas! Bliss!

My lungs and throat and sinuses feel like someone's been playing hackey-sack with 'em and my eyes are dry, scratchy and hurty. My immune system is so fucked up and compromised, it scares me. What the fuck happens when I'm all old and less resistant to death? Shit,what happens when that friggin' bird flu gets here from China or Germany or where-the-fuck-ever?

Prolly just croak or something. I have serious and legitimate doubts I'll make it past my sixtieth. And the only reason I'll make it that far? Is because my family is long-lived on both sides. But instead of making it to my mid-eighties (gah! who'd wanna live that long, unless they're Jack Palance? I swear, that guy's fuckin ninety and he's healthier than me--doin' one-armed push-ups, and shit) I'll limp miserably into my late fifties or early sixties, then die of some respiratory/heart disease.

Or I'll get hit by a truck, 'cause I totally never remember to look when I cross the street. Hell, I think it's amazing I made it to twenty, considering my habitual inattention to large, fast moving objects. Heh, I'll proably get flattened by an Acme piano whilst walking down a street well before I turn sixty.

And can the flist say anxiety attacks?

I knew you could. Gold star! Mine are making quite the come-back. God, I need to be on medication.

Anyway--something a teeny bit less tedious and depressing than my shit-problems. . . my shit-writing:

Awakenings 6

Previous installments are here: ”Awakenings”.

Ain't I brilliant? Not to mention original.

Plus--Bones is back, thank doG, so when the bloody hell is Kitchen Confidential coming back? I look forward to very little . . . in life, in t.v.--but KC is one of the few, the proud, the looked-forward-to-by-yours-truly. So quit running goddamn hockey, or baseball, or jai alai, or whatever shit programming you're spewing into the cosmos, Rupert Murdoch, and run some goddamn Kitchen Confidential, before I die of TB!

Thank you!

*clears throat*

So . . . how you guys doin'?