The Sickness

I can feel something lodged in my throat, just hanging there above my esophagus. I think I have the sickness. It's trying to get to my lungs like it did years ago. It likes it there where it is moist and warm and there's plenty of room to grow. I’m making chicken soup and drinking orange/v-8/pomogranite juice; I hope I’m in time.

I put up a new piece of brain gas over on tales. I wrote it bleary eyed through bourbon glasses.

If the sickness goes to far, I’ll take the slingshot and bourbon on the deck and shoot as many of the little bastards as I can while screaming at the sun. Of course I should check my supply of shot first. I also need to get some serious traps for inside the house where the mousmoleshrew is still happily crapping his way through the midnight hours. I’ve been nice. I’ve put down humane traps. As Patrick Swayze said in ROADHOUSE, “I want you to be nice until it's time to not be nice.” I think that’s a good credo to live by. I’m just waiting for Sam Elliot to get here so the killing can begin.

At some point last night, or this morning, I got it in my head to see if I could get any signals from the air up in the loft. After a few hours of wires/bowls/and aluminum foil, I now have fuzzy JERRY SPRINGER, PBS and faint ghosts of all the locals. It looks like if there was an actual TV antenna here, local channels could easily be received. I'm thinking of covering the entire ceiling in foil and turning the whole cabin into an antenna. Maybe then I can get better cell phone reception as well.