Dateline: Monday, July 31st, 2006, 7:13am CDT

Dear Diary,

I woke up this morning feeling terrible. My head is throbbing like a theremin conducted by a spastic. My body is greased from head to toe by nasty buckets of fever sweat. My guts are locked solid, seized by frozen molasses.

What the fuck, Chuck?

I can’t account for this filthy state of sensation. I have not paraded through throngs of diseased people, imbibed any spirits or substances, eaten any food of dubious freshness, or suffered prolonged exposure to extreme outdoor elements. Perplexing.

Have I been injected with experimental serums again? Did those Hungarian freaks come back? Maybe they did. Maybe my memory is affected, too.

Okay, Diary. I’m in the bathroom now. I’ve cranked the shower knob to high scorch. I need to fix myself up. I’m gonna curl myself into fetal position, huddle in the tub, and hopefully this blight will evaporate.

It didn’t work. Goddamnit, Diary. You’re supposed to heal me, absolve me, forgive me, and make me feel like a worthwhile human being. You’re my Jesus substitute, and you’re failing spectacularly. The shower didn’t fucking work.

Okay, soup. Soup always works, right? I’m stocked. I have six flavors of ramen, ten of Campbell’s, and some stranger ones, like oyster chowder and Dominique’s U.S. Senate Bean Soup. I’m a soup freak. I’ve decided, my dear Diary. I’ll go with the Senate beans. If it’s good enough for them… Yeah. If this shit can assuage a Senator's moral corruption, why not my bodily corruption?

You were supposed to knock on my cranium and ask if anybody was home, McFly. Beans on top of a gastrointestinal blockage? Never smart. You should’ve stood up and screamed for thin broth and a sprinkle of parsley. But no, you sat before me, silently mocking, enjoying my accumulating decay. Monday is fucked. Damn you, Diary, damn you. You blew it up. Damn you all to hell.

Tuesday night. Time for another bright idea. This one always works, Diary, even if you disapprove. For some reason I always save it, reserve it as a final drastic remedy. Good old fashioned Kentucky Bourbon. Amber fire, the scourge of mysterious viral infections everywhere. Bottle procured, commence.

First shot. Swish like mouthwash. Mouth numb.

Second shot. Tickles throat, warms belly.

Third shot. Tummy gurgles. Head widens.

Fourth shot. Feeling wobbly, sweating profusely. Internal warfare commenced.

Fifth shot. Pant, mumble, a bloom of happiness creeping up, smothering the headache. Oh yes.

Sixth shot. Equilibrium damage, playful gravity, thick tongue.

Seventh shot. Help. Mommy. So dizzy.

Eight shot. I think it is working. I am feeling very little. This is an improvement.

Ninth shot. Medicine of the Old West. Yes. I am in the Old West! Hosannah! Chaps, spurs, carriages, whores, laudanum. I like it here. Hooves splash in mud. Wearing a cravat. More whiskey.

Tenth shot. I am lost. Those are stairs. Up the stairs, hands and knees. Note to self (not to you, you worthless fucking Diary) Must spread medicine over a larger span of time. Ten shots in twenty minutes is bad. Bad.

Bed. Snore. Fart bean steam. Scratch crotch. Scratch face. Scratch neck. Tug ears. Utter gutterally. Talk to silence. Remember diary. Cackle at diary.

It worked. I was nothing but dehydrated come Wednesday afternoon. Healed by the barrel.

2:24 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm