I am NOT an addict.

Well, it appears that my "mean critter" that attacked my GI tract earlier in the week was actually my mean pancreas in disguise, because for the 2nd half of the week, it has been in there knocking around, threatening to burst through my back, my side, or possibly my mid-epigastric area. I have medicine to control this pain, but unfortunately, since I awoke this morning at 7:00AM and suffered for an hour before I finally took 3.25mg of pain medicine, and then decided at about 2:30PM to end the suffering temporarily with another dose, my mom has now decided that I am an addict. Oh yes, I must be. Because when I'm in pain, I don't scream and writhe and cry and complain - I just go about quietly, in pain, and every six hours or so, break a pain pill in half and take it so that I can do something productive for approximately 90 minutes.

At this point, I have to ask for the medicine, because it is hidden, which I will not do. I'll just hope that my pancreas doesn't successfully free itself from its visceral prison when I happen to be standing on the carpet. Because being in trouble for messing up the carpet would really be bad, on top of being dead and all.

On the plus side, I've spent this day in which I felt like doing nothing vertical finishing one of the books I'm reading, I Love Everybody (And Other Atrocious Lies) by Laurie Notaro. It made me laugh, a lot. Which was painful, but it was okay. Here's an excerpt, when she's talking about her neighbor who is a Cat Feeder:

Come stand at my window at 6 P.M. on any given night and you can see the whole show, the most extensive research project concerning crossbreeding and mammals the universe has ever hosted, and that includes aliens. At six is when my neighbor, the Feeder, saunters out to her front yard and pours the cheapest brand of cat food she could find that week into roughly twenty bowls scattered about her chain-link-fenced yard and slowly, you'll see the swarm begin. They come in from everywhere. They climb down from roofs, leap out of trees, crawl out from under cars, pop up out of manholes, they come. They come. And they feed, all forty to sixty of them, depending on the live-birth rate of that particular breeding season. If T.S. Eliot had lived in my house, Cats would have never existed; instead, there would now be a touring company of the musical I've Got the Sack, You Bring the Rock, and We'll Meet Down by the Creek.

Heh.

Oh, and speaking of heh, there's something humorous I just discovered. An Instapundit parody - It's a Pundit - at which I am referred to as Kimmy Ramblestrip, which I rather like. I'm even built into the permalink! In the permalink, I'm "kimmy_ramblestr", but whatever. I still think it's cute. And I want one of those Glenn Reynolds quotes for my blog, except I want it from Drunk Glenn or Evil Glenn or Glenda or Fake Glenn or one of the others. That's all.

Oh wait, it's not all - back to Laurie Notaro - I think she may overuse the word "feral", but I have decided it's forgivable. Now THAT is all.