Weirdly, I ate super light yesterday, but did have a customary glass of red wine, as one does, on Sundays.

We drink red wine on Sundays, or so my father-in-law tells me.

He’s also a man who feeds his other daughter ice cream and Coke for dinner on a regular basis, so he’s not exactly the sommelier we look for.

But still, for some reason we do it (and I do love a good red), but it seems to have triggered a relapse from the night before’s horrid gastrointestinal adventures, and now, I sit, having lost another couple of hours of wondrous sleep.

Plus some weird fuckin’ dreams.

Weird fuckin’ dreams, man.

I liked the ones I had before the acid set in; The Last Showgirl apparently wormed its way into my subconscious in the forms of Song and Ship.

Sorry, honey. It was involuntary. I can’t be held responsible for what my unconscious mind dredges up.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 3315 words, comic: The Stuff 4

Read: Full Catastrophe Living, Jon Kabat-Zinn (we're livin' the full catastrophe, all right)
Comics: Fables 135-137, Fairest 21
Music: 20 Years Of Hell, Vol IV, Anti-Flag/One If By Land