Raging Dad

I have become afflicted with The Crud: a vile sickness that creeps into your chest and sinuses and throbs and oozes until you are unfit for human contact. I slept half of the day on Sunday, went to bed early last night and still managed to sleep until 3 p.m. If not for my profound need to urinate, I might have decomposed right there and become one with the bedding.

There is something unnerving about being sick and whacked out on cold medicine. It makes me feel detached from my body. Time ceases to travel its natural course. Hours pass in alternating waves of speed and torturous slowness. And the damn cats! They insist on sleeping on my feeble legs, completely upsetting my already compromised internal temperature controls. Lacking the strength to cast them aside, and also craving the cuddly contact of their cursed fur, I am left to moan and toss and turn.

Murnau's Nosferatu stalks his prey...

Meanwhile, Raging Mom has become bitten by her own ravenous beast, this one a temptress called Twilight, and she has hardly come up for air in the last three days. Impressively, she has managed to make it well into book four in fewer days, a feat I’ve never been able to achieve, even when cramming for school.

I’ve not read these Twilight books myself, but I see the appeal. There is nothing sexier than the Undead, especially when they are young and nubile, hot and steamy. Sounds like a story that would make a great movie…

Song of the day: “Letter From Belgium,” by The Mountain Goats.