Jake, why do you hate us all so. damn. much.

Hey kids,

It's been like a freakin' TB ward around here this weekend. Jake brought home a particularly virulent strain of monkey death last week, and now every single one of us is running a fever, coughing up bits of lung and generally just feeling like shite.

This is unfortunate, as I have to report to my doctor for a complete physical tomorrow, sick or not. AND, I'm supposed to leave for an overnight business thingie Tuesday. But I don't particularly want to force this bug on my travel companions, who I would be sitting in a mini-van with all the way to San Francisco. They would HATE me. And they would talk shit about me when I run into AM/PM in Sacto for Zicam, Diet Coke and Red Vines.

And I can't really comment on specifics, but I was going to get to meet World Championship figure skater Rudy Galindo on this trip. How odd and wonderful is that. Bummer.

Maybe I'll wake up in the morning and this all will be gone.

I think this is perhaps punishment for my back-sliding ways these past few days. Anybody who's been around me this week must be pretty sick of me; all I've done is whine about wanting a cigarette. It's been kind of a stressful week, and the jones is hitting pretty hard this time around. I usually joke that not a day in the past couple of years has gone by that I don't want a cigarette. That's starting to be a lie, as there are now sizable chunks of days that go by when I don't even think about it.

Not this week.

So on my way to a friend's party yesterday, I thought to myself that I WILL get this out of my system, one way or the other. I bought a pack of AmSpirit Blues at 7-Eleven, drove down the road a bit and parked in a shady lot in front of PetSmart and thoroughly enjoyed my first cigarette in quite a while. I also assumed that the party would have -- as every party does -- the little pack of losers that hang out in the back yard, smoking and being anti-social. That I would get to polish off my pack and put it behind me and move on with my frickin' life. No such luck. No smokers. None at all.

Later when I got home, I hot-boxed a single right there in the driveway before I went inside. And how familiar was this routine: "Hi kids, bye kids..." straight to the bathroom to change my clothes, wash my hands no less than three times and brush my teeth and gargle. PA-THET-ICK!

So all day today, I get progressively sicker and sicker. Serves me right, I suppose. And serves me righter if I don't douse the rest of that pack and toss it in the trash.

Well, Jakob. You've woken up from your feverish sleep and want me to lay down with you for a while. So here I come. Love you, and thanks for nothing!