Sicked and Mired In My Own Dirt

Well, it's that time of year again. The trees are rustling, the air is brisk, and I've come down with a cold.

Oh, sure, I've been pushing myself at, like, DEFCON 1 for about two months now: going out late, getting up early, meetings day and night. True to form, I've been neglecting the homestead something fierce, and have been rewarded with the most disgusting colony of fruit flies I've ever seen. So now that I'm sick, I get to hang out in a totally assy apartment, with nothing but fruit flies to keep me company. Sigh.

I get sick all the time. I have a feeling it's something do with poor nutrition, seeing as how much of what I consume consists of rice and beer. (Sometimes both at once, cutting out that pesky middleman of "chewing.") Okay, that's an exaggeration: I eat tons of vegetables, which is why it's so frustrating when getting sick is such a regular occasion. It's probably also tied to living alone, since everyone knows getting sick and being alone is a total drag when you're feeling under the weather, and it seems to take twice as long to feel better when your only companions are The Simpsons. Plus, dragging yourself to your neighbourhood corner store to load up on crackers, soup, juice and trashy magazines is exhausting when you can barely muster the energy to run a bath.

Two years ago, I had one of the worst sicks ever. You think you've been ill? First, I gave myself food poisoning - because I am a true champion, and because I believed for (no good reason) that pasta sauce is like ketchup, and ketchup doesn't seem to ever go bad. (Assumption? False. Prognosis? Negative.) Then I got the flu - complete with fever! - which quickly blossomed into a bronchial infection. All this happened in the span of, like, three weeks. In January. Which, as you can imagine, sucked. I eventually took a cab to the local walk-in clinic, where they pronounced me "sick" and sent me home to "rest." Helpful! The codeine in the cough syrup made up for a little, but it was still brutal.

In any case, I have zero interest in being sick right now. I have too much to do: people to see, articles to research, nuits to blanche. All I feel like doing is napping and hunting those dad-blasted fruit flies with tiny guns, but I'll man up, gird my loins, and put on clothes that aren't sweatpants. Thus prepared, I'll face the day. Will there be complaining? Oh, yes. Will there eventually be triumph? Possibly. Now leave me alone - I'm tuckered out and need a nap.