What's that rosy glow, you ask? A souvenir of a bliss-filled day hiking under the Arizona sun? Perhaps a memoir of an erotic encounter?
No. The rosy glow would be the result of all my facial capillaries having exploded during a six-hour marathon session on the bathroom floor Sunday night, involving every plumbing fixture in said bathroom, to say nothing of every plumbing fixture installed south of said face. Let's just say the passionate relationship with Pei Wei teriyaki chicken is on hold for now.
I tend to fixate on one or two thought trajectories that whirl around violently in my head when I'm in that situation, usually apropos of nothing, and the intensity of the obsession causes almost as much discomfort as the nausea. This particular occasion had me wondering (1) what percentage of the calories consumed at dinner six hours ago have I heaved up, and (2) you know the actress who plays the mom on 7th Heaven? Yeah, what's her name, again?
Had no idea about the calorie thing; with my luck I probably absorbed all the fat and carbs within seconds of eating but hadn't quite gotten around to the protein and vitamins before they vacated the system; and about four hours into it managed to come up with Catherine Hicks.
While I was out, Bush apparently decided it would be a good idea to give the NSA job to a sitting general who's seriously misinformed re: the actual content of the 4th Amendment.
Meanwhile, I'm discovering that granola is not a good breakfast choice for a traumatized stomach.
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