today I got sick. it started off with the drippy nose last night, where I was just sniffling over and over. I remember when dad used to do that when I was growing up, and I would want to drown him, the sound drove me so crazy. last night, I pretty much wanted to drown myself.
I ended up falling asleep on my back, Olive laying close by on the body pillow like usual. this was a conscious choice, because then I didn't have to wake up in a puddle of my own drainage. the bad news was that said drainage went all into my eustachian tubes and my ears were close to explosive level when I awoke. I went on base for a couple of hours mid-day, but otherwise today was lay around the house, watch The Discovery Channel and TLC (back to back episodes of Overhaulin', Mythbusters, Little People, Big World, and Cake Boss), wear old sweats and nap fitfully. Linds was a darling and went to the grocery, bringing me back chicken and stars and some airborne. I took a handful of assorted pills from the medicine cabinet.
I can't remember when I've watched this much TV in one day. The really prime moment of the evening was when I got a call from what very nearly amounts to a long lost friend from college. we talked about TV (naturally, as it was my only activity today) and how we'd both loved the show "The Sing Off" a couple of weeks ago. Seriously, that Ben Folds. I could just eat him up. and we started talking about modern lyricism, and how nobody really wants to make love up in this club. or make love nah nah nah nah. nobody wants to make love on the dance floor. firstly, they want to f***, not make love. and secondly, i highly doubt that even the thuggiest gangsta would whip it out right then and there. maybe in the VIP room. maybe in the bathroom stall. but in the middle of everyone? I'm doubtful.
we came up with the idea of the fornication tarp, or f*** tarp, if you don't mind using all the words in the king's english. You could put it out in the middle of the dance floor. It would provide some privacy if interested parties wanted to wrap up in it, or get under it. It could be easily hosed off. It could be marketed in neon colors, which might augment the ambience with the usage of blacklights. perhaps the fornication tarp could be featured in autotuned, overproduced hip hop videos, endorsed by rappers with icy grills and t-shirts that hang past their knees.
only one question remains: if they would be able to sacrifice their romantic lyricism for the capitalistic powerplay of the moneymaking tarp. after all, not much rhymes with f***.