That's because I am sick. Dropped on me after dinner on Saturday, had completely waylaid me by 2 a.m. that night, and I spent all of today circling Neptune. (Neptune, however, notably features: chocolate cake, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and an adorable individual expounding upon metaphysical slipstream of my tea-making thinking process.) The big challenge was getting home on the TTC tonight with my senses amplified to the Daredevil level: the stunning electric shock of touching cold metal, the trip to the afterlife that is the sound of a subway car taking a turn too fast and shrieking like No-Name herself (there oughta be a law), and the bile-driving nausea of womens' perfume. (Honestly ladies: read the fucking memo.)

My head may split off and shoot around the room, like the screensaver on Sararina's DVD player. Except that the screen would be my room and the "DVD" logo would be my head. Oh, you get it. Stop picking on me! Following that, I will actually cough my lungs clean out of my body, and they will set up shop on the Danforth selling fine smoked meats and an assortment of cheeses. And then my muscles will liquefy and go Terminate someone.

I want my mother's Cherokee casserole, and I want it now.