Feeling like a sucked-on piece of licorice

I'm home sick today with a 101 degree fever. It has taken every ounce of energy to crawl to the computer, but I had to see if my @#$%^&* book has shipped, because it would be nice to have the thing while I'm wallowing miserably in bed. I've read my Paris Match cover to cover and would like something to do other than flip through channels (I hate daytime TV). I know I have a fever when I have ridiculous, repetitive thoughts or songs get in my head that I can't release. This morning it is alternately Lionel Ritchie's "All Night Long" and the Ivory soap jingle ("it's got a beat 99.44"). I was hoping the damned book could distract me a bit, but the delivery date is next week, the bastards.

In my delirium, I briefly watched a, um, fascinating program on "JCTV." It was one of those Texan-witness-to-the-Lord things, where everyone's arms are flailing in the air and the host is a sprayed and shellac'd woman in a gigantic, platinum Parton wig with an accent cute as bug's ear. I couldn't not watch it. She had generously donated (operators were standing by for YOUR financial contribution) a TV camera for a young adults troupe that had just performed (don't get me started on that). Someone held up the camera, they all gathered around with their hands on it, or in the air, and prayed for the camera. It was the damnedest thing. The faces of everyone in that room were so intense. Then I thought, When I have I been so moved like that? The only thing I could compare it to was the best freaking food Victor and I ate in Venice and Florence. That's about as transcendent as I've felt.

Well, it was fun whining. Off to sip some Sprite.