January 26, 1999.

The Boy is tipsily changing channels in the next room. He got a shock this evening...just months after his mom announced her remarriage, his father has done the same. I dunno...if I were his dad's fiancée, I'd be suspicious of the coincidence. If there was even a hint that I was involved in a revenge marriage, I'd blow in no time. But then again, if it lit a fire under his ass then all the better.

So he's drinking, and I'm writing. We're being awfully silly. Earlier in the evening, we created our own Jerry Springer episode with little paper puppets. It's remarkably easy...as long as you create the requisite number of interchangeable characters: Bitch #1, Jerk #2, Ubiquitous Audience Member, etc. You should try it.

What else? Not much. Tummy upset. Head aches. I'm tired all the time, and I'm beginning to realize that this is independent of the amount of sleep I get. Today I slept 11 hours, and I still felt wrapped in a layer of cotton.

Argh. The temptation to take the problems of my body to chemical jurisdiction is overwhelming some days. Ahh...the sweet promise of percodan...