Today is gooey again. Too much snot, not enough lotion-ey facial tissue. Too much data entry, not enough reliable internet. My stress ball is a blood drop with plastic hands and feet. I like him. I wrote my name under his left foot. I accidentally wrote on him with a wayward pen stroke. Now he has one little hair coming out of the top of his "head," like a desperate bald man. It's time for resting and West Winging and gargling with salt water. Sickness makes me want chicken soup, but I don't think it's in the cards. By the way, I gave up industrial meat. I was already toying with the idea and the first two chapters of Mad Cowboy made it a pretty easy decision. Now, you have to help me stick to my guns!