I got four Christmas presents in the mail today from my aunt and uncle in Hawaii.

Hawaii sounds nice and warm. My body doesn’t like the cold. It feels like someone put ice in my insides. Everything I touch that is cold feels like a knife on my skin. I’m so cold, I’m shaking, and crying. Its like my whole personality has changed. Playing in the snow doesn’t even sound like fun anymore.

Last night I went to bed with a bag of potato chips and Kurt Vonegut. I woke up around 3AM and thought I was on drugs. Really really good drugs, so it goes.

When I was at the post office today picking up my Christmas presents, the man in front of me smelled like rotten cheese. His cloths were dirty and bloody. He asked if he could sit down on the bench and then come up to the front of the line when I was about at the front of the line. I gladly said yes because I thought he might be having a heart attack. Five minutes later he asked if I would call him a cab. Again I said yes because I couldn’t think how else he’d get home. About 20 other people were watching all this. Just standing there with their mouths open. I wonder why he asked me and no one else?

Where do you put Christmas presents when you don’t have a Christmas tree? Or any Christmas decorations? Or any clean spot on the floor? I just put them in a pile next to my couch. I decided to wait until later to open them. Maybe I will open one tonight.

My body is so hot! It feels like My insides are on fire. My chest is dripping with sweat and so is my head and my back. It’s pretty gross. I feel dizzy and I have a headache. I should probably lie down. And cry some more. I am glad no one is around to see this. Those punk rock girls downstairs must keep the house at 80 degrees. This sucks. I have NO control…just heat.

I wonder if that guy made it home okay in the cab? He’ll probably be dead before Christmas. He had better open his Christmas presents tonight! Soup would be a much better dinner for him than potato chips. And he should read something nice like…fuck I don’t know…C.S. Lewis. If he read Vonegut, he’d probably die right then and there! So it goes.