Sick. Hope it isn't the flu. Probably is. Stupid flu.

I'm sick. Boo. My head hurts and my nose is all stuffed up and I have that feeling, you know, when you're sick and you haven't been getting enough sleep, where it feels like someone snuck into your room during the night and stir-fried your eyeballs. Being sick makes me cranky, except that I don't actually have the energy to be cranky, so I just sort of end up sitting here and slowly converting into a little ball of generalized hate. Do I have the flu? Because if it's the flu, that'd really suck. The last time I had the flu was in 8th grade and I missed almost two weeks of school. Not that I minded at the time, but the makeup work was a bitch, and I've got a paper on Othello due on Tuesday, and in my current state it's going to read like, "Iago uses the fact that he only told Othello what Othello wanted to hear as a defense against the accusations that [long string of gibberish where I fell asleep on the keyboard]." You may note that even the pre-gibberish part of that makes no sense. Also I still have to interview someone for Chinese, ick, ick ick. Will have to wake up at ass o'clock tomorrow and go to Bellaire, really this time, rather than waking up at ass o'clock and resetting the alarm, which is what I did the last couple of times that I meant to go over there and interview people. I really don't like being sick. Spent all of yesterday outside in the sun feeling like absolute shit and getting covered in a thin layer of Astroturf, too. At one point during the game I was seriously doubting whether or not I'd be able to stay standing long enough to play the halftime show. Kind of an issue, since we had a percussion pit and we'd dragged over a xylophone and a bell kit just for me. Managed it somehow, though. Eventually was rewarded with Chinese buffet. The guy put the fortune cookies down under the counter when the MOB group went up to pay, though. Stupid little man. Wanted a fortune cookie. Boo.

Summary of above entry: I'm sick, and that means that you get to read a totally incoherent stream-of-consciousness livejournal entry. I wanna go home. Wah.

Still sick, but that is no longer the purpose of this entry.

First of all: have best boyfriend ever. I win. Am still a bit confused about how in the hell I got this lucky, but am reluctant to mention it for fear of attracting the attention of the law of averages.

Second of all: I get to go home for dinner tonight, yay, because I tried to call my mom to whine, but she wasn't home, so instead I got to whine at my dad, who is much more of a pushover. Yay, real food.

Last of all: fucking Othello. It's bad enough that I had a choice between writing on Othello and trying to write on Canterbury Tales except that I'd be restricted to using the original Middle English, which is incoherent enough when I can think, and therefore was forced to choose the one that I like less (because Canterbury Tales is hilarious and smutty and Othello is just sort of... vaguely smutty, but not in a fun way). But why do I have to write about the absolute least interesting aspect of Othello, that being the relationship between Othello and Iago? I mean, a paper about Iago's rampant paranoia or the romantic ("romantic") relationships in the play or something interesting, please, would be all right. This is boring. Whiiiiine.

Oh, as if I can think of a subject line.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Still haven't written any of the paper. Have written about 3 sentences of prewriting, which mostly boils down to, "Iago is dishonest. Othello is trusting."

This is insane. Right now I'm emailing my profs for tomorrow and telling them that there's no way I can come to class, I have the flu, pity me. Then I'm going to sleep. Tomorrow I'll probably be emailing the English prof and trying to work out some way that I can have an extra day on the paper to make up for the fact that my brain feels like it's covered in fur.

I hate trying to sleep when I'm sick, because generally I end up having really freaky-ass dreams. Once I woke up convinced that the Wicked Witch of the West was coming to get me unless I could get some specific number at roulette. Last night's was much more coherent but no less hateful. Ugh.

Is it just me, or do I post more when I have a paper I should be writing? Arrrrrrrgh. Forget it. Goodnight.