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FUCK YOU INFLUENZA

Well, I had a big post planned here about the disappearance of pulp fiction, and how curious I find it that there are no major fiction magazines anymore, and how dissatisfied I am with the standard explanation of why the story-magazine -- both literary and pulp -- died out (paper shortages of WWII + development of television). But I am way, way too sick to be coherent about it, or anything else, right now. Instead, please go on about your business sans my pontification; I will be right here, waiting for a merciful death that may never arrive.

My neighbor is gearing up to have another of his parties that lasts until about 5AM. How fun for him. I can take some comfort in the fact that at least he won't keep me awake, because this hellish illness knocks me completely unconscious every few hours.

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kudaspeaks
Feb. 22nd, 2008 06:03 am (UTC)
I'm sorry, this is a really wretched flu. I just essentially dunked my work keyboard in Purell because the IT guy who came by to fix my printer issue sounded like Barry White on a Catherine Wheel. I know I'm doomed anyway. I feel bad for you, fucking air travel I blame.
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flavored with age
ludickid
Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator
Ludic Log

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Leonard Pierce is a freelance writer wandering around Texas with no sleep or sense of direction. If you give him money he will write something for you. If you are nice to him he may come to your house and get drunk.

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