TheraFlu is total bullshit.

I’m sick, which is for crap. I had planned on observing Cinco de Mayo by going to the Olive Garden in Chelsea with my roommates, a guilty pleasure we indulge about once every three months. This began back in November when Caroline and I spent an entire hungover Sunday in our pajamas, putting together a dresser from IKEA. That’s a lie: Caroline put together the dresser from IKEA, and whenever she said, “Screw this in here,” I’d screw that in there, but only after getting it stuck the first three times. Anyway, for some reason we watched an ABC Family marathon of Full House and Boy Meets World, and this marathon was apparently sponsored by Olive Garden, because that horrible “When You’re Here, We’re Reinforcing Racist Stereotypes” commercial came on every five minutes, and by the time the dresser was standing, we had the following embarrassing conversation, held in the same nuanced tones used when you want initiate something in the bedroom but you’re not sure if the other person would be into it:

“Ha, you know what kind of sounds good right now?”
“Uh, Olive Garden?”
“Yeah, I know, right? Is that gross? Ha ha!”
“Ha, do you want to go?”
“I’ll get my coat.”

And thus our secret household shame was born. Every family needs a tradition steeped in humiliation, right? So ours involves all you can eat breadsticks once a season. Please don’t tell my favorite restaurant in Little Italy about this.

Anyway, so I’ve got this raging case of miners’ lung that’s making it hard to breathe or talk or do anything but languish about the house like I’m Camille. Earlier today at work, I was workshopping this joke in my head about the Sun’s address being 123 Sun, but then I got tired and decided to just eat some ice cream and stare out the window instead. Then I came home, got in bed with Maus and some hot tea, fell asleep for three hours, and am now wide awake at 11 pm, so you’re getting this rambling stream of cold medicine post. Also, I have a fever. Sweet! Let’s do this!

While I was falling asleep earlier, I had my window open, and I could hear the neighborhood kids playing outside. Going to bed while it was still light out made me think of that Robert Louis Stevenson poem my mom used to read to me, and I started to get wistful for my childhood, at least until I heard the kids outside calling each other shithead.

This lady I work with gives me her month-old People magazines for some reason, and I usually just throw them away, but today I was looking through the one with all the Oscar fashion photos, and I got this huge jolt of ridiculous superiority, like, oh, they still think Charles and Camilla are getting married on April 8! They don’t even know about the Pope dying! Stupid people in the recent past for not knowing the future! I sure did have one up on those non-time-machine-having People editors! Then I turned the page and saw that my co-worker’s elderly mother had filled in the crossword puzzle, and it just sort of broke my heart and I couldn’t go on.

You know what I hate? People who still use the word “hipster.” Just stop. When you say “hipster,” you really just mean “asshole,” so say that instead. Another thing I hate is when people refer to their significant other as “the boy” or “the girl.” That’s some sneaky shit right there. You’re trying to sound all carefree and clever and oh who knows what will happen here certainly not me I can’t be bothered to worry!, but dude, it’s so obvious that ALL YOU’RE DOING is thinking about this, so quit analyzing it and being passive/aggressive and just call them your boyfriend or girlfriend. What is this, the thirteenth grade?

One trend I’ve noticed lately is a lot of people on the street wearing big headphones again. Let me go on the record right now as saying I am ALL FOR this. Fuck those little iPod earbuds; I think everyone should go out and buy the biggest cans they can find, like the giant kind Matthew Sweet wore on the cover of 100% Fun. In a similar vein, why do all new cars look like they’re half-melted teardrops now? Do we really need to be so aerodynamic that our dashboards can’t have a right angle? America, I should tell you, because the car makers aren’t going to: You are not traveling on the Autobahn. You don’t need to sweat wind resistance when you’re loading Dakota and Dakota into your SUV to go get frozen yogurt. Bring back the big old boxy cars, the old man shoebox boats! I just finished reading the final piece in a fascinating and depressing New Yorker three-part series about how the global climate is changing due to carbon dioxide emissions, and mankind is basically fucked, and the Bush Administration not only won’t do anything to stop it, they’re making it worse, so sure, big dinosaur cars: why the fuck not? I want to drive my first car again, a 1974 Chevrolet Caprice Classic, and I want to wear the most gigantic headphones I can find plugged into the 8-track player while I do.

Wow. Apparently if you get enough Quil in me, I turn into someone’s cranky dad. No way is anyone still reading this anymore, so I’m going to go watch the Clone Wars animated series from this link Josh emailed me earlier today. On dial up. That should work out great. Did you know that I still have dial up? And use AOL? And that my computer is older than my cell phone? And that my cell phone is from the year 2000? And that I only make popcorn on the stove, because the microwave is Lucifer’s red-hot womb? Hey! You kids! Get off my lawn!