I am feeling really out of sorts.

Maybe it's the simple fact that it is close to 90°F and I don't have air conditioning.

Maybe it's the chilli dog that I had yesterday, which continues to haunt my GI tract.

Maybe I caught something from a little kid. They're like walking Petri dishes. I'm surprised I haven't broken out in some kind of rash. I do have diffuse muscle pain, though.

I had said that I was going to go to this dinner tonight, but, partly because I didn't RSVP on time, and partly because I feel like ass and really don't want to go anywhere right now, I think I'm just going to hang out at home in my underwear.

I'm afraid that I'm redeveloping my social anxiety disorder.

(Hah. I'm afraid that I'm becoming afraid.)

There is something desperate and sad about all this. I just don't want to admit it to myself. I really should stop peeping voyeuristically at other people's blogs.

It's not so much that I'm actually bored—my world has far too many things for me to do. It's just that I seem to have lost the knack for doing anything that might be even remotely interesting to another person.

In others words: not much to report today. Still traipsing through this vast desert of my life. Water supply still adequate, but no way to replenish it in sight.

I am afraid of what will happen when life decides to squeeze.