(no subject)
A (hopefully) minor disagreement with my GI tract leaves me up at 4 a.m., watching a 16-year-old episode of Married With Children. Where's the fucking pepto and applesauce (no, not together. First one, then the other. Then the first again).
Why is there so much "Paid Programming" at 4 a.m.?
Where has all the damn time gone? I have vague memories of watching new (yes, new... but not this one. I was four. Hopefully, my parents were better parents than that) episodes of Married With Children. Now, all of a sudden, 1993 is 16 years ago. The fuck, man?
I wanna sleep. Really, really bad. I want my warm, comfy bed with the soft, blue flannel penguin sheets. As soon as the urge to vomit passes, either into the terlet or of its own accord (praying for the latter), I shall make my way back there. Besides... in my fear, I left my radio (classical music soothes me) and the kitchen light on. This may irritate the parents. Oddly enough, blogging about this little gastrointestinal kerfluffle has helped allay my emesis-related fears. Yes, Firefox, emesis is a word.
Why is there so much "Paid Programming" at 4 a.m.?
Where has all the damn time gone? I have vague memories of watching new (yes, new... but not this one. I was four. Hopefully, my parents were better parents than that) episodes of Married With Children. Now, all of a sudden, 1993 is 16 years ago. The fuck, man?
I wanna sleep. Really, really bad. I want my warm, comfy bed with the soft, blue flannel penguin sheets. As soon as the urge to vomit passes, either into the terlet or of its own accord (praying for the latter), I shall make my way back there. Besides... in my fear, I left my radio (classical music soothes me) and the kitchen light on. This may irritate the parents. Oddly enough, blogging about this little gastrointestinal kerfluffle has helped allay my emesis-related fears. Yes, Firefox, emesis is a word.