Dec. 17, 2003 @ 9:36 p.m.

My body sends more mixed signals than a bad relationship with a girl I met at a multiple personality rehabilitation center. One minute it makes me feel like any second I’m going to launch my stomach into the toilet bowl with a splash even a 300-lb, pastel and pasty, white guy would be proud of. The next it’s flaunting a flat washboard stomach and no sign of a fictitiously small gut, only to turn around in ten minutes and become bloated like a floating fish in plastic cup on the counter next to my near dead aloe vera plant that is waiting to be thrown out and flushed like my face. The tired look I wear isn’t from life or anything that comes from it, but more from just the mere fact that my health is becoming a concern. What, am I getting old? Can you look up Medicare in the phonebook if you’re only twenty?