Am deathLy ill. Really. Am at death's door. Cannot write full sentances. Also, cannot spell. Have very painful hangnails, yet cannot cross room to get nail clipper. Am growing woozy. Cannot type much longer. Must get rest, because cannot miss work tomorrow. Am little trouper. Deserve cookie. Do not deserve fucking cat using arm as ladder just now.

Also, eyes itch. Am Job.

Today's horoscope:
Don't make your job today into a struggle between concentrated focus and carefree versatility. Allocate time and space for both.

One year ago today:
I can only imagine that the ranks of online journallers are perhapsdisproportionatly full of people who enjoy yammering on aboutthemselves!

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Last Updated Thurs 25 January 23:43:09 2001