Return to November 30, 1999 (idea)

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I'm sick. No, not like that - my days of whips, chains, cattle prods, crème-fraîche-and-molasses mingling with the beautiful salty remnants of the sweat you produced in your ballet class tonight, and invocations and exercises from that obscure twisted Guyanese equivalent of the Kama Sutra are long behind me.

My head is pounding and stuffed up. I don't normally get sick, but when I do, I make a production number out of it. This time, I'll just make a node.

My first thought was "chicken soup", but the cupboard is bare in that regard. So I'll probably turn part of a can of Campbell's Cheddar Soup (who the fuck bought this crap?) into pasta sauce, if I can crawl back to the kitchen without passing out. Medics are standing by.

I suppose one takes cold medicines for this sort of thing, but I've pretty much had a life-long fear of pharmaceutical products (this from a man who had read all of the Leary/Alpert/Metzner psychedelic-academic literature by the age of 15 - as well as Andrew Weil's great material - and, for many years, never met a shroom he didn't like); I don't even use sleeping pills, despite the occasional conflicts between insomnia and agenda. All I have here is aspirin.

I wish to be the first to remind you that there is no 31st of November. There might be one in 2000, since that's a leap year.

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