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I had planned on chronicling the Atlanta Rammstein show today, but the post trip comedown came with a vengeance this morning, and I've spent the past nine hours vomiting my way through the house. It finally started to abate an hour ago, but I'm taking no chances, so I'm going to slurp soup and green tea and read and watch basketball. I actually wonder if I didn't catch CC's mysterious stomach bug from just before the trip, because I've never been so sick from a panic attack. One trip to the puke pail, sure, but eight? If it wasn't from her, then I probably picked it up from one of the screaming children at the aquariums or zoo. I suppose I'll know for sure if or when Roomie takes his turn playing the porcelain slots.
I did finish the Christoph-centric Sprache interstitial, and it's all proofread and edited and ready to post, but I'm going to wait until I've posted my account of the Atlanta show to put it up. Since that should be tomorrow unless the death lurgy has a resurgence, Christoph will say his piece on Monday.
I'm reading Body Farm, the fifth Kay Scarpetta novel at the moment. No, I haven't yet finished Ghost Road Blues yet. I put it aside because I've grown to care very much for the people of Pine Barrens, and I can't bear to see what's about to happen to many of them at the hands of the horrifying Mr. Ruger. So, I'll finish it after I finish Ms. Scarpetta's adventure.
And oh, my Lord, how I despise Ms. Scarpetta. Between her reaction to the accusations leveled at her niece and her woe-is-me breast-beating when she realizes Lucy is gay and her affair with a married co-worker, my already-tenuous respect plummeted through the floor and into the sub-basement of Hell. I've been the odd man out in a relationship, and it's humiliating and excruciating to realize you've been played for a fool. So I have no sympathy for the other woman in these situations, particularly when their attitude is, "I know it's wrong, but I don't care as long as I get mine." I hope this selfish liaison blows up in her self-righteous face.
I did finish the Christoph-centric Sprache interstitial, and it's all proofread and edited and ready to post, but I'm going to wait until I've posted my account of the Atlanta show to put it up. Since that should be tomorrow unless the death lurgy has a resurgence, Christoph will say his piece on Monday.
I'm reading Body Farm, the fifth Kay Scarpetta novel at the moment. No, I haven't yet finished Ghost Road Blues yet. I put it aside because I've grown to care very much for the people of Pine Barrens, and I can't bear to see what's about to happen to many of them at the hands of the horrifying Mr. Ruger. So, I'll finish it after I finish Ms. Scarpetta's adventure.
And oh, my Lord, how I despise Ms. Scarpetta. Between her reaction to the accusations leveled at her niece and her woe-is-me breast-beating when she realizes Lucy is gay and her affair with a married co-worker, my already-tenuous respect plummeted through the floor and into the sub-basement of Hell. I've been the odd man out in a relationship, and it's humiliating and excruciating to realize you've been played for a fool. So I have no sympathy for the other woman in these situations, particularly when their attitude is, "I know it's wrong, but I don't care as long as I get mine." I hope this selfish liaison blows up in her self-righteous face.
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