Last night, rather quite late, I got very hungry. I found some chicken pieces in the fridge and hacked them up and covered them with barbecue sauce and grilled them. They were exceptionally tasty.

I got up twice in the middle of the night to, um, relieve myself. Only I wasn’t nearly relieved.

Before I walked Murphy this morning I had to do my business. I’ve done my business about ten times today. That’s a lot of business. I’ve become a careful student of my bathroom. There are exactly 1156 squares on the top of my weight scale. I need to order more toilet paper.

I haven’t really had the time or the presence of mind to do anything else today. Writing this is nearly enough to kill me. I’m afraid to eat anything. I’d go buy some Imodium but I can’t quite get up the energy or the nerve to go out and I don’t want to ruin my embargo for something so despairingly sad as Imodium.

It used to be that I didn’t like buying toilet paper because I didn’t like to be seen walking down the street carrying toilet paper. People would look at me and see that I was carrying toilet paper and draw the natural conclusion and imagine me using it. And now here I am describing my affliction.

Well, the trouble with writing something everyday is that eventually it’s going to become scatological. Nasty nasty chicken.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to go. I really have got to go. I’m surprised. I should be as thoroughly drained as a mortician’s corpse.

SS