Can you hear me, Beth Gibbons?

It's a total waste to feel unwell through totally pedestrian means; thanks to a simultaneous Slurpee and cigarette binge, most of Saturday night was spent coughing and feeling feverish. It caught on to something a little larger yesterday, and it was controlled today with clear skies and a sunny disposition. I can't really tell how well I am after a few days because the sensations feel the same; once I manage to get ill, I'm a walking hypochondriac.

But there's nothing terribly exciting about feeling extremely dodgy via an ice/sugar rush and an accidental overinhalation of nicotine; I'd much rather catch a cold by singing in the rain, or catch typhoid in the badlands of Africa, or catch the Consumption as it was coming out in the Old West.

And lest you wish to remind me about how unfortunate others are, I am grateful for all that I have. I'm just saying that things have felt mightily sterile of late.

Yet, certain things have not. My father, for instance, is a wildfire brimming with a burning passion to make life difficult for everyone around him...be it inadvertently, or not. The last few days haven't been pretty; and to top it all off, he might be secretly marrying his golddigging woman (the pendulum has swung to the negative yet again).

I suppose that it's hard to choose over your love for your own family over your love for a woman...but it's an absolute crime to simply ignore, and even worse, discard the former. It feels as if he's totally neglecting the people who should count in a vain attempt to retain some twisted form of vitality.

Not even all the Portishead in the world can save me now.