Whistling in the Dark

Scotch when you're sick to begin with causes you to sing to your cat.

She crawled up, perhaps because she liked it -- because I was singing quite well -- and perhaps because she's asking me to stop, and listened to me sing the old variant of Auld Lang Syne, High Barbary, the Wild Rover and the Rambling Rover. She seemed to like it. Or at least not to be upset, and she purred. Of course, cats will purr when in pain.

I'm really quite drunk. It's the curse and blessing of my surgery -- one is enough to make me very happy. kobold is making me a drunk Snarky, and tonight I deserve it more than when he saw me. And of course, my symptoms feel better with the alcohol.

Tomorrow should be interesting.

Tonight, I'm thinking about Robert Burns (of course) and women. Women are a very nice thing, you know it? Even if I'm a prude, women are superior. A couple of girls I met at the con, freakfest, the lovely corsetress, semper tourjours rarely... women are just plain nice.

See, right now, I'd be good for a one night stand. But then, I'm really quite drunk. Scotch will do that with my efficient intestines. I could name another dozen superior women just off the top of my head. But instead, I'm thinking I'll pass out and see if the alcohol causes the fever to break.

And don't forget -- on the 27th, it's Lewis Carroll Through The Looking Glass Day on Livejournal.