He tastes like you, only sweeter

To Dumaguete tomorrow. Hopefully.

For the past few days, all the extra moisture in the metro has found refuge in my sinuses. I sound funny. I've got a migraine so bad, so consistent, I can't even snarl at bright lights, loud noises, and pungent colognes. Even my bones hurt.

I'm sick. Yey. Sick sick siiiick.

(-_-)

It's hard to be excited when you discover that you're finding it hard to breathe through buckets of snot, when you can't even form a coherent thought without setting off mini-explosions in your brain.

On the other hand, I am thrilled about this affected indifference. Haha. This could be the start of something fascinating, you little airplane you. Can't wait to jetset. I start with Dumaguete. Ready, jetset, go.

*snigger*

Hai, jetset.

Oh, brain.

*

My luggage, like my word use, is suffering from elephantiasis. Clothes vomit. Fashion diarrhea. I have too much clothes in my itty-bitty suitcase. My mom's acting as luggage editor. "I'm here to serve as your common sense," she tells me.

Yes, mother.

Ayoko kasing maglaba. The last time I did that, I turned a brown-ish shirt into a brown-ish shirt with red stripes. The red bra addition wasn't one of my better ideas.