What a day.

Well, she made it until about lunch and then came home. She's in the living room now, sounding for all the world like her sinuses are packed with cement that hasn't quite gone off (Sorry. Ground Force-ism, there.).

In consequence of which I'm very likely not going to do a show tonight, after all. I'd feel like a gigantic asshat if I mucked about in here when m'lady is sick.

Wish us luck, folks.

*gigglesnort* Okay, show's on.

Why? One word - NyQuil.

When she went up to bed, she was croaking "Werewolves Of London" and doing a kind of shuffle.

She's sleeping the sleep of the blessed, right now, and nary a sneeze have I heard. So, come on in.

Details here if you need them.

Damn it, Hunter!

You should have gone out in one last, glorious mescaline fueled binge. You should have been shot while running naked across the field at the Super Bowl, waving a phony bomb, looking out for giant polka dotted bats and chugging a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand all the while smoking a bowl of premium hash in that pipe of yours!

How in the wild, blue hell could you go in such a hopelessly mundane way as suicide?

You stupid, stupid, stupid son of a bitch.

Reincarnation had by God better be true, because you owe us a glorious death, you magnificent bastard.