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 [Timothy Leary|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 [shrooms|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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