Apparently even if you didn�t get drunk, it�s entirely possible that your pants did. Copious amounts of alcohol spilled on them make it so.

I went out Saturday night. I didn�t have that much to drink. I woke up Sunday feeling fine. A little tired but fine. I woke up today feeling fine also. Until I put on the pants I wore on Saturday night (and yes, they had been washed) and I developed a headache. Then my mouth got that horrible dry, old sock taste to it. Then I thought I might throw up.

Are my pants magical? Dark Arts magical obviously. Or is it just a case of bad stuff, cause when I got to work this morning I crushed my index finger into the door. It�s not broken, although it still smarts quite a bit and typing various letters is making it ache. Then I dared to grasp a box and I almost screamed out. It really, really hurts. I burnt my mouth on chicken beschamel and spent five minutes biting off the skin hanging off the roof of my mouth. And the printer hates me. It keeps doing things I specifically told it NOT to do.

Ugh, none of this makes sense and the more I type the crankier I get. Maybe it�s the play. The play sucks. Not in the sense that �it�s a bad, horrible, ghastly play that doesn�t entertain and the actors are crap� but sucks in the manner of �I open and close the curtain and in between I am bored shitless because it is so boring and depressing and Chekhov sucks�. Plus rehearsals are tonight and I�m tired.

I am crankier than a racehorse in June.

Yeah, I don�t know what that means. I just wanted to have a sentence that compared my rage to something and that�s what popped into my head. It doesn�t make any sense. This is so stupid.

Oh crap, now I think I�d going to cry. Well it appears that my brain sort of gave up today.

I wanna wear a sandwich board tomorrow that says, �Just shut up, you all suck�

Tyd

2 August 2004 - 5:06 pm

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