For the past two days my stomach has been burning for, burning for, burning for me. I blame Blue Öyster Cult. Al, the cutest girl on earth™ and I have decided it’s either stomach cancer or a bleeding ulcer. We got our medical degrees out of Cracker Jack boxes.

I promised her if the burning sensation in my belly isn’t gone by tomorrow I would seek real medical help. I’ve also discovered that woman cannot survive on yogurt and pretzels alone. But I have been giving it my best shot. However the lack of sustenance has left me weak, sleepy, and strangely quiet. My silence unnerves the people around me. All my co-workers (yes, I’ve been trying to work at least a few hours a day) think I am either angry or depressed. Which, of course, makes me angry. If one more person stops by, cocks their head to the side and then asks in hushed tones if everything’s all right, I will punch them in the neck. Fuck. It’s like a girl can’t become strangely sullen and introspective without everyone thinking she’s gonna shove her head in an oven.

The worst part of this recent malaise? I keep having this strange recurring dream that involves going to see .38 Special with the Vodo and Wolfdogg at the Target Center. Only thing is, Mike Doughty’s in the band and they all dress in feathery, floaty angel wings and halos. Creeps me right out.