Sick

I'm ill.

The kind of illness that isn't really that bad, but has the symptom of making me complain about it to everyone. It's only a cold, but could be considered flu by a more pessimistic person than me.

It's rubbish. I feel like my whole head is filled up with fluid. If I wore a toupee, I could just tear it off and pour the excess contents into the bath or something.

The only good thing about it is it means I can abdicate all responsibility and not worry about the upcoming upheavel in my life for a little while. Instead of being concerned with graduation and moving houses, I can retreat to feeble victimism (I've invented a word) and be absorbed in strange dreams about the game Inkball on Vista and groups of attacking squirrels.

Admittedly, I can't do my usual cross-country skiing or charity fun-baking, and will have to stay in and watch TV for a change.

My inactivity is nothing to be proud of, but it does make me feel better about getting old. When I'm a pensioner, I'll still be able to sit around smoking pot and watching wrestling, so I don't have to worry about a slow decline.

***

I hate Man Utd. I'm watching them demolish Newcastle at the moment. If Alex Ferguson died today, I would probably smile. There aren't many people I'd say that about. Another one is also a Red Cunt, and has just got a hat-trick.

We need another Munich air disaster.

That's not true, I don't really have such stupid opinions. It's just because I'm ill with flu and squirrels and the onset of dementia.