Hurligig

My one roommate is trying to bake an Obamacake in the kitchen right now, because God gave her a sign that if she baked it, he would win. We just had to mop up Cake We Can Believe In off of the kitchen floor though, so I feel like the signs have neutralized themselves at this point.

While she's at it, I am invaliding. Which means I am drinking tea with my cat and trying to ignore the mountain of readings I am not doing. And I think I am perfectly justified in my sloth because I spent my whole morning puking my guts out. Here's a handy video illustration of my morning, with just a touch more bigotry:

So, yeah, having to leave work because you're vomiting in the second floor washroom: not the sexiest thing ever. Also not sexy: cab drivers who don't know where Bourgeoys street is, and then won't listen when I try and give them directions. He just kept on going further and further away from my house, until I just started moaning "Take.... me to... Wellington... go left.... or just put me... out of my misery..."

He finally made it to Wellington. Where he started to make a right. Also, he was playing the theme from Schindler's List in the cab, so I don't know what any of that was about, but I didn't care, because I was home, home where no one could see me vomit and I could curse my body in peace. Home, where I could rest in between crawling to the bathroom by... watching some kind of marinade being poured over raw pork on the TV. Thanks, CBC. Or, once I crawled back to the couch and changed the channel, the View. I went back to the pork. I'm back on solids now, but I think I may have to go kosher from now on.