Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

I've got the flu or something. Yesterday I dragged myself out of bed to get hot and sour soup from Panda Express. (Most people I know know some great neighborhood takeout place called Ting Sing's or whatever, and they get their pizza from Vito's or Guido's or Zito's. I get my takeout pizza from Domino's, my Chinese from Panda Express. I'm no foody, and the fact that I think all ethnic restaurants have comically rhyming names indicates I'm mildly racist.) Although I didn't have any sort of appetite, I felt like it was absolutely necessary that I get some hot and sour soup in me. Sick people need soup, I kept telling myself. Driving the three miles to Panda Express and standing in line to order my food nearly killed me. Forget holidays -- the only time I miss having a girlfriend is when I'm deathly ill.

I feel worse today, and Dawson's Creek isn't helping any. It's on TBS right now, and I'm too weak to reach for the remote and change the channel. This is the worst show I've ever seen. The shape of James Van Der Beek's head is especially troubling because it resembles a mini corn dog. Each time one scene transitions into the next, it's accompanied by dulcet guitar strumming. It's supposed to be soothing and pleasant; it is, in fact, maddening. That one guy with the dark hair -- he uses the word "celluloid" in a discussion about movies. Nobody talks like that. I would kill him with my bare hands if I could.

Fuck you, Ted Turner.