I am writing this entry in bed. It is early for sleep, barely seven thirty, but my back and stomach aches set off by unwarranted coughing drove me here. I don’t have much to talk to—not that this has stopped me over the last days from senseless and short writings—which is why I’ve decided to edit and reedit all my sentences to confuse my readers’ (yeah, I thought about spelling it “reader’s”) sensibilities with overly masticated sentences.

I complained over the weekend about the water-downed crap that Motts served in lieu of caffeinated drinks. Today, I reintroduced my body to life-affirming and yummy caffeine processed and packaged by the bucks of stars. My virus-infected body didn’t grasp its significance, and decided to use the excess energy to power fits of coughing instead of, say, opening creative canals to let my wit and wonder gush over the select who frequent sewcrates.com.

I am still disappointed with my creative output during David Time (DT) this weekend. For the last four weeks, I’ve looked forward to DT, a time of introspection and inspiration, which, I assumed, would raise me (and, more importantly, my writing) to a more enlightened sphere of existence. I imagined drawing upon the silent reservoir of experiences and bringing forth fonts of well-conceived constructions (or, as I tried to describe it but couldn’t find the right context, sugarplum faeries anointing my head with their tiny magic wands). Instead, DT simultaneously depressed and impelled me to levels of boredom I’ve not seen in years. I broke a cardinal rule of NEQID and played video games by myself for hours. I’d like to divest myself of all responsibilities and direct blame at my illness, but that would give my illness too much credit.

Speaking of sicknesses, did I mention I’m still sick (this is where the audience offers a spontaneous and heartfelt “aw,” or, more likely, a “stop fishing for sympathy already and get on with it”)? I thought after last night I would not need to wear my sick sweatshirt (which has amazing healing abilities, +3 CON for those familiar with the aspects of devil worship), but I woke up sicker this morning. After a shower and quick breakfast, I felt well enough to head to work—I would have lost my gourd if I stayed home sick. My head feels stuffed, similar to the deplaning effects where sounds dampen and the world acquires a distant guise.

This is where the steam leaves me. Yeah, I should go back to breaking stones and attempting to make sense of the tape recorder baby, but I forgot where I placed the momentum for that story. I have a feeling I’ll locate it one of these days. Either that or I’ll keep amazing you by writing words that say nothing. And you thought this was a talent reserved only for politicians. (Wham. Who said I don’t have talent for political blogging?).