some canteloupe. "What the heck!" reasoned my normally cautious (read “phobic”) self. I mean, the fruit wasn’t from Colorado or anything. But, judging from how I felt yesterday evening, we should avoid the melons from California, also. Anyone want the one left in my fridge?
On the bright side, I can snap my jeans shut now. Who needs Weight Watchers when you can have listeria instead?
Actually, after gnawing on half a toasted bagel this morning, I still feel sick. It occurs to me that, if I up and die, this blog will be the only extant record of my thoughts and feelings, the only indicator that I once walked through and communed via the Internet. Maybe excerpts should be read at my funeral. Feel free to suggest which posts would be most suitable.
Is death funny? Discuss.
14-year-old technical assistant taught her how to use Microsoft Paint to make a slashy-sign thingie? Who's not very good at it yet? And who prides herself on knowing the all-important difference between whose and who's?
Hint: The answers to #5? They are all the same.
Vote for me. You have to, because it may be my dying wish.
Jennifer would never joke about death. For morbidity-free Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!
[cantaloupe image: HealBlog.net]
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