7:47 p.m. - 2003-08-02
Sick as Dog; Yet Failing to Grasp the Gravity at All.
Dateline 8.3.03. Burning Man preparations are congealing, coalescing, gelling sweetly like homemade beater-frosting. Have a brilliant new camping chair, the first (proper) sleeping bag of my adult life, and a stunning fever--the timing of which is all rather fortunate. It would not do to have a summer cold three weeks hence. (And the chair was an astounding sale price).

It's possible that the B-vitamins + iron are helping my mood a wee bit. Foregoing my morning cup of coffee did not result in tears, and I've been calling around to leave my dulcet Kathleen Turner novelty-laryngeal tones on others' voicemail. I feel good.

Weak, but good.

I prescribe for myself a nap, followed by the attempt to duplicate Hedwig's glittery red lips in the mirror as a diversion. Hurrah.

...Maybe it's not the vitamins. Maybe it's just the fever.

I'm not picky.

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