The ibuprofen bottle reads
Adults: take 1 tablet every 4 to 6 hours while symptoms persist. If pain or fever does not respond to 1 tablet 2 tablets may be used but do not take more than 6 tablets in 24 hours unless directed by a doctor.

I read that right after downing 4 tablets so that makes at least 8 in 7 hours. I'm hoping that this damn swollen lymphoid will go down by tomorrow. I brushed all the white crap off my tongue except for the stuff in the very back, that I couldn't get to. It made me gag. I think I'm going to go sit in the shower for a while.
I haven't left my apartment in 2 days now. I need to get up to north campus and take a look at Photoshop and aftereffects and devise a game plan for this workshop next week.
I've been reading Flannery O'Connor courtesy of Sticky. Ms. O'Connor sure as hell didn't doll her characters up. Her writing is depressingly realistic. These stories are giving me a different perspective on the environment my parents must have been born into back in 1944.

I'm sick. Damn damn damn damn, oh lordy! Why? fucking invisible little monsters crawiling all in my throat and shit!

I ended up staying up till 12 or 1 last night and Francine and we tried this 99 cents Steel High Gravity Beer. That is one hard core beer. I talked to Andy last night and he is all sick of his full time UPS clerk job.
When I woke up around 10 my throat was killing me from excessive cigarette smoking I reckon so I went back to sleep until six. My throat still hurts though so I'm bummed out about that.
I think I've convinced Francine to go to the beach tomorrow so if anyone wants to come they should give me a call or e-mail or whatever.

The book A Slaveholder's Daughter by Belle Kearney was published in 1900. I've been reading it but at page 138 she's become a born again Christian and I don't know if I can handle the rest of the book. It was interesting to be transported back 100 years. Here is a quote from the chapter on women's suffrage. I think it's good to compare to the recent gay marriage rights issues.

page 117
When the bill giving women control of their property was before the Mississippi legislature, its opponents argued against it on the grounds that if passed and allowed to go into execution, it would disrupt families. This idea of the disruption of families has been a terror that has hounded the steps of the reformer for generations, but the home tie seems to remain unruffled, through all the revolutions.

This city is eating away at me, slowly and surly. I sit in my filth being a loathsome person. This is how I feel after calling my parents and begging for money. I talked my Mama then to my 3 yr. old niece Kiah for the longest time. She's so sweet it breaks my heart to be so far away. She said
Do you member me?
Are you tired? You can come sleep over here, Robie.
Is your cat there, is he still dead?
Poxy's not dead.
Poxy's dead she got all squishy.
Will you sing a song with me?
Where is your Mama? Granny yer mama?
When are you going to come here Robin?
You gotta get on an airplane?
No Granny you can't have the phone I'm talking to Robie
ahhhh waaaaa!
Is your boyfriend there?
What's his name, Annie?
He lives where I live?
Papa's gater broke.
We rode it to much.
Papa can fix it.
I've got a wire to fix the gater.
I love you.
When are you gonna come here?

So eventually she gives the phone to my Dad and I beg for a loan and he gets upset because he doesn't have the money but he says that he'll send me money every week and I try to explain why it's difficult for me if he sends money every week but it's pointless. He tells me to call more and not just when I need money. I tell him that I do call I just never talk to him and we hang up.
Then I cried for a good long while. I'm not even sure why. It could be because I feel bad for seeming ungrateful and spoiled. It could be because I'm worried about how I will get to campus when I move to a cheaper apartment that isn't so close to the subway. It could be that the people who I love the most and who love me the most all live 1000 miles away. It could be that I'm uncertain what the hell I'm doing with my life. It could be that I haven't done anything creative in what feels like a million years. It could be that I have to teach software in two weeks and I'm not that excited about it. It could be that Andy hasn't called me this week. It could be a million stupid, personal, and boring things.

I apologize for disappearing last night. I was bribed out of my hovel.
Wow, pecan pies. I love pecan pies and so does my Mama. In my Mawmaw's front yard there is a pecan tree.
I had a strange dream last night. My leg kept coming off right below the knee. I could put it back on but it felt like it was falling asleep. Numb parts. I tried hopping on the leg to make it wake up. A brown skinned girl helped me but I was so unbalance that I knocked us both over. Then the girl helping my slid her tongue in my mouth.

what was the name of that game where you had those little red zit stickers?
Girl Talk

i really do want to be on the beach. If only meinhold could have waited another day. Keith is going to be there for two weeks??? God, I wish I could convince Francine to drive down there. Anyone with a car wanna go to SC? Damn it, I do want to be on the beach, oh well.

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated
through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all
time, this expression is unique.

If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be
lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine
how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other
expressions. It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and
directly, to keep the channel open.

You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to
keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.

Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction,
whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a
blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the
others.

Martha Graham (in a letter to Agnes DeMille)

time is a wasting, it's nice.