No, though my skin be clammy, I suffer no fever; though my spirit sinks through the black depths of self-pity, and I snap and bitch at co-workers like a second-rate prof with tenure; though my nasal cavities see-saw from full to arid with neither rhyme, nor reason; it is clear that what ails me is a disease as mysterious as it is malign.
Of my mind's 12 billion neurons only half fire in proper sequence. My humours are overwhelmed by bile, black. And my muscles ache for exercise I have neither heart nor will to provide.
Merde, indeed. If I don't feel better tomorrow, to a
Beyond that, I have little to report. My apartment is as chaotic as the world and I care not much more about the former, than I do for the latter at this, dis-spirited point in time.
Whoever it was that said, "When I stub my toe, that's tragedy; when you slip upon the peel of the noble banana and break your hip, that's comedy," knew well whereof he spoke.