phosfate

My brain hurts. Well, no, it doesn't hurt, it's just all full up with new stuff that it can't quite process. I think my frontal lobes burned out about halfway through the Cirque du Soleil. There ain't enough REM sleep in the world, I tell ya. Everything's got a sort of glaze over it.

If you're dying for an account of our adventures in the Greater Orlando Area, visit the more resilient and verbal Sharon. (My own record so far is made up of bits of paper pasted into a scrapbook and slathered in paint, some of which will doubtless appear here in the future. Contain your joy.)

I am brown. Not surprisingly, after a week in a subtropical climate, but it looks very odd. When I look at my hands, or in the mirror, I think there's something wrong with the lighting. If I thought anyone here would get the joke, I'd invest in some light-pink lipstick and big floppy socks and go all kogal.

But the shell-shock and low verbal performance are good signs, indicative of the best time I've ever had, at least on this continent. I think things are going to hatch out of my brain soon.

Er, metaphorically. The water in Orlando was perfectly foul, but I don't think it had brain-worm eggs.