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Written on 2001-11-12, at 11:17 p.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Large Sweet Tea

1 Chik-Fil-A Breakfast Sandwich

1 Three-Way Platter (Ruby Tuesdays)

1/2 Order Four Cheese Pasta (Leftovers)

2 Cigarettes

John Live*

I've been shirtless a lot lately...

*Not at all live

I'm sick.

And I just @&#^$%! hate that!!

My throat feels like there have been tiny little men rappelling up and down it all day long.

Tiny little men with, um...really sharp feet.

My body temperature fluctuates from Antarctica to Africa, faster than a menopausal woman.

I call my Mother, the doctor, who in all her infinte medical knowledge says...

"How often are you urinating?"


"How many times are you peeing?"

"Um, I don't know, a lot?"

"Well keep track, and check the color, then call me tomorrow."

"For what?"

"To tell me how often you're going."

(Father in the background) "Is that John Anthony?"

"Yes, it is."

(Father in the background) "What's he saying?"

"He's sick."

(Father in the background) "What's wrong?"

"He doesn't feel well."

(Father in the background) "Well what does he have?"

"He doesn't know, he feels sick."

(Me) "Hi, I'm still here...and I'm not going to count my pee."

To top all that off, I had to go to school today.

Yes, on Veterans Day.

ALL the other schools in the Orlando area were closed. However, I'm lucky enough to attend the one which is obviously run by pinko commie bastards, so I was there bright and early.

All I want to do is lay down, and relax, but the cat seems to think otherwise.

Whether it's positioning himself directly between myself and the TV, which is projecting the new AbFab, or producing twice his body weight in feces, he's hell bent on making me work.

No, really, I'm serious about that last one...

I feed him twice a day.


1/2 Cup of dry food...

1/2 Can of moist food...

Some water, and some lactose-free Catmilk.

Then repeat at night.

Yet, he somehow produces enough kitty-doo to fill the Grand Canyon.

That is, if the Grand Canyon were the size of a Van Ness brand litterbox.

I swear, I think he's hiding steaks somewhere.

Alrighty then, I'm going to drag my miserable carcass into bed, and wait for the Coronas with NyQuil chasers to kick in.

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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