I prefer the former state to the latter state, except for the fact I DON'T feel like crap. I feel perfectly fine. Well, sorta.
There's this about that... we were awakened at oh-dark-thirty this morning, twice. Once by a message from SN1 at 0452 hrs (precisely, coz the mePhone would NOT let me ignore it, what with beeping until I accessed said message) and again at 0835 hrs by a call from a nice person at Roosevelt General to update me on my request for full-time oxygen, which has fallen victim to the MediScare bureaucracy. I may have to go back to the clinic for another series of tests to verify I cannot breathe properly in order to satisfy the Death Panels. Or they may just let me slowly expire... one never knows.
So, we gave up trying to sleep after the call from RGH, rolled our ol' ass outta bed, tossed down a couple o' cups, showered, and journeyed out to Cannon Airplane Patch to run a few errands. In the course o' doin' so I was politely (yes, politely) requested by the Airman on the gate to "slow it down a little when approaching the gate." Which kinda shocked me, given as how one has to slalom through a series of concrete barriers in order to actually GET to the gate. I've always looked at those barriers as a sort of challenge... kinda like a gymkhana... the object bein' to get through them as quickly as possible without pranging the sheet metal. It turns out the skycops take a rather dim view of my exhibition of driving skill in this space. So we smiled, said "Yessir, yessir, three bags full, sir" and were on our merry way.
It's always sumthin'.