At least I got around eight hours sleep to-day. But this whimsical sickness of mine has taken a new form, now just constant nausea. I don't throw up, I just have a sour feeling in my gut, along with an occasional pinching sensation in my side. My current theory is that I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, which is the closest thing to matching all my symptoms, but I really don't know. I'm mainly just crossing my fingers and knocking on wood and so on. I'm still trying to figure out what to eat--I had a craving for sunnyside up eggs and yoghurt last night, so I went to Denny's and had some. I listened to some old veterans talking in the next booth about Westerns. And I thought to myself, they're okay, right? They're much older than me and they pulled through. Surely I can do it too. Maybe I worry too much, I don't know. But my imagination tends make broad leaps when I don't have information--I mean, I don't convince myself of things I don't know, but if there's a possibility of something really bad, I can't stop gnawing on it. I guess the fact that I usually feel like karma should be kicking my ass at any moment doesn't help, either.
I've drawn and inked a page to-day, and I should have the new Venia's Travels chapter done on time. But I think, after this, I'm going to have to put the comic on a brief hiatus until things settle down or I find out they're not going to. I still need to deal with my car, too.
Since I've been going by the original broadcast order of Buffy and Angel, I'm currently watching the middle of a four episode block of Buffy. I watched the season premiere of season seven last night. Obviously lots of echoes of the first seasons, with the return to high school and the cameos by all the previous season villains. Sort of reminds me of Return of the Jedi going back to Tatooine, though the music and camera work are starting to take on a decided Lord of the Rings influence more than anything else.
Twitter Sonnet #80
Black liquorice should ever avail us.
My stomach is confused by an apple.
Digestion is watched by a backwards bust.
There are always marble men to grapple.
Excessively damp wounds cry out for salt.
Summer ghosts steal many different dishes.
Repetition makes useless an assault.
Review the sad normalcy of wishes.
A man lived to a hundred at Denny's.
As did a dim ash nomad in a yurt.
Messages come through century pennies.
Society broadly accepts yoghurt.
The green air is warm with ghoulish trouble.
Dice hail pelt the foggy plastic bubble.
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