My weekend sucked.

I jinxed myself. I'll admit it. I was all up for doing something Friday afternoon, as you saw before. I worked out with ol' Matty, went home showered, got dressed and like a wave crashing into me, suddenly felt like complete and utter crap. It was like having a hangover without the alcohol. I had an invite to head out to the bar, but by the time I got it the prospect of going out was pretty much a distant memory. I shotgun some NyQuil and go to bed around 11pm, since looking at a computer or TV screen hurts my head to much and I refuse to be reading at home on a Friday night.

I wake up Saturday feeling worse because now my throat feels swollen shut and my nose is completely plugged up. I also have the hangover from hell headache lingering on. I also realize that it's noon. Thanks, NyQuil! I proceed to go from laying in my bed to laying on my couch. I find out that Brian is rounding up troops to go to the 30 Seconds To Mars show out at the beach. I'd like to go, not because I like the band (the CD was decidedly generic) but because I'd like to taunt Jared Leto. I think it would be great to just keep screaming, "Ed Norton whupped your ass! And not jacked up American History X Ed Norton, but wimpy-looking Fight Club Ed Norton!" Two things would be great about doing this. 1) People who can't differentiate between actors and the characters they play are inherently funny. 2) People who know the difference but still do this anyway are even funnier. Me getting in a fight with the lead singer of a band would make for great blog fodder, too. Sadly, my crappy condition prevented any of this from coming to pass. I shotgun more NyQuil and go to bed early, weeping just a little.

I am awakened early Sunday morning (around 10am, yes that's early) to the sound of someone across the street from me setting off their car alarm. Repeatedly. Like every 45 seconds repeatedly. For a solid 20 minutes. It's times like this that I'm glad I don't own a gun, because I'm too pretty to go to jail. Well, I'm not that pretty, but I've seen enough episodes of Oz to know that I never, ever want to go to prison. EVER. So I figure I may as well get up since the car alarm is going to drive me insane either way. I have a bowl of oatmeal, since that seems to be one of the few things able to make it past the grapefruit-swollen glands in my neck. I decide that maybe some fresh air would do me right, so I try to do some yardwork. The fact that I could only breathe through my mouth reminded me that this was a horrible choice. I finish mowing the lawn, feeling like I'm coated in a mixture of sweat and mucus. I take a shower and lay on the couch for a few hours, before finally getting up and using the computer again. I have some nice conversations with the 30 people who IM me about 3 seconds after signing on. Just an aside, it damn well better be an emergency if you feel the need to write me less than 30 seconds after I sign on. I don't want to talk to you that bad. Don't take that personally, I hate everyone equally. Well, not really. Just sayin'. Anyway, my mom calls, asks what I did this weekend, I tell her, she asks if I had any dates, I tell her no and she gets mad and bugs me about how she wants grandchildren, making my mood even better. Thanks, mom! I shotgun more NyQuil and go to bed.

I wake up this morning to a dream about getting home around dawn after being out partying all night. Pretty sad when your dream life is more functional than your waking life. Needless to say, I get up exhausted, and feeling only marginally better. I figure it's because I've been locked in a grimy old training room for over a week now with a dozen newspaper people who rarely see the sun. It's the only explanation.

Sorry if you read all the way through that, but sometimes you've just gotta purge that crap from your system before you can move on.