They have spies everywhere

I refuse to believe the nausea I'm feeling today is some kind of super delayed hangover. I think it's much more likely that my body is simply punishing itself for being dragged out of bed at the unaccustomed hour of 0745 this morning, due to having to practice for the stupid thing I was roped into, which is going to be not very good at all in my humble opinion. I feel I shall write this and go home and attempt to patch up the relationship with my digestive system by sending it back to bed. Funnily enough I've already seen this scenario before, in the year 2000, when one morning after sitting increasingly uncomfortably through a rather important Honours seminar as some random bertie germ gestated its little heart out, I staggered out into Forestry Road and, some 60 or so metres later, threw up all over it. This was much to the consternation of some bearded git driving past in a brown van, who curb-crawled past looking at me like he was wanting to take on the responsibility of physically expelling such an uncouth person from the university, but then he thought better of it and drove off. Nobody needed to hear that story but it's stuck in your head now, ha. Anyway it was not a particularly pleasant experience and so I'll avoid repeating it today if possible.

Saturday night was good. There was drinking by all and sundry, save Thesis Boy and Teetotaller Man, who nonetheless both came prepared to enjoy themselves, as was only fitting. In addition, there was some rather random snogging, which I must say came out of left-field somewhat. But you get this. (Actually, I don't get this. I suppose that's the point.) So thanks alcohol, good job there, 2 thumbs way up. Shame how you let the side down the next day however, with the tongue like a piece of leather and the headache and the exhaustion and the feeling sick late into the night (and now it seems today as well. Surely not alcohol, you bastard). Surprising really, in that I wouldn't have thought I had had a great deal to drink, probably lucky I stopped when I did.

Coke is messing with my head. I blog that their competition is not giving away enough free Coke, their new competition seems to be bringing me great quantities of free Coke. I blog that this is good, the free Coke dries up completely.
Not one since that entry. They're know my thoughts, people! They know this blog influences the Coke purchasing choices of millions, and their satellite is tracking my movements. (What satellite, you say? Well, if you were Coke, wouldn't you damn well have a satellite?) And they're TOYING with me. Well, secret Coke monitoring agents, I am just letting you know that I am unhappy with my current level of free Coke. Unhappy, do you hear me! I demand improvement.

Ah, there's more, and this beige thing we've got going on here now may yet be further tampered with, but I really can't be bothered at the moment; it's home and sleep, in that order. I will note however that the Namibian cricket team has a player called Murgatroyd. Excellent. I wonder if he is who Snagglepuss is always talking about. (Was Snagglepuss supposed to be gay, or what? I mean, he was pink.)

Right then, that's all she wrote. Back later (perhaps).