I'm sick. I'm SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK! Wah! Feel sorry for me!

I knew I shouldn't have eaten all that fresh fruit, I KNEW IT! My body can't process that kind of junk; it needs artificial flavors and colors, preservatives, potassium benzoate, refined sugars. Now I'm ill and all BEDRIDDEN.

(Although you see that the fresh fruit hasn't hurt my flair for the dramatic.)

The sneezing and the stuffy nose don't bother me, particularly. I spend 3/4 of my life like that anyway. What I despise is the muzzy-headed, floaty feeling, like each of my brain's synapses are wrapped in cotton-wool. They're still there, they function, just not as quickly or precisely as usual. I can't recall the last time I had a cold - not for the last 2 or 3 years, at least - but this time I have the worst sore throat I can remember since childhood. Ugh. I reported this to Alan, who said in a tone of great cheerfulness and eager anticipation, "Maybe you'll get strep throat!"

I don't want to be sick on Friday, I don't want to be sick all weekend, it's NOT FAIR. At least The Boss doesn't think I'm faking to get a three-day weekend; when I called in this morning he sighed and said he expected this, considering how I sounded yesterday. By "sounded" he means "kept sneezing all over me and reeling around like a drunken sailor". In the past, I'd go to work sick and try to tough things out; I'd tell The Boss that I was moving slower than usual but if he'd bear with me, I'd get a few things done at least. He'd be understanding, and since he's The World's Greatest Boss, he'd often fetch orange juice and soup, or even aspirin and cough drops from the drugstore. I'd feel brave and accomplished until a week later, when I'd start finding all the weird, bassackward stuff I'd done while sick - stuff filed neatly in the wrong folders, bills paid from the wrong accounts, all sorts of goofs that I'd only made because I was just out-of-it enough to think I was functional. So today I stayed home in bed.

After I'd called The Boss, I was lying in bed thinking of the scene in When Harry Met Sally in which Billy Crystal decides to lie in bed and moan. This appealed to me so I gave it a try. The cat was concerned, came running in from another part of the house, jumped on the bed, tromped his 20-lb self up the entire length of my body, sat on my chest, bent over and started licking my nose, which was raw from Kleenex abuse - so it wasn't exactly a stellar result.

Alan had bustled off importantly to procure remedies and returned with half the drugstore in plastic bags, including Cepacol throat spray which, according to him, "Tastes like ass but has always helped me so try it". He should have been more specific. I don't know for a fact, but I imagine my own ass probably tastes like soap (lots of bubble baths, you know) and I don't mind so much that he didn't name the specific one, but he should have warned me he meant GOAT ass.

After I'd napped for a while and taken a bath, which I didn't do last night because I felt too horrible, I felt okay-ish and was starting to feel bad about not being at work. Toying with the idea of going in, at least for a while, I noticed all the used tissues strewn on my nighttable so I picked them up to throw them away. I walked through the kitchen to the utility room, lifted the lid of the washing machine and tossed in the handfuls of used Kleenex. Three steps toward the kitchen, I stopped and a vague realization of "That ain't right" drifted through my mind. I stopped feeling guilty about not going to work because obviously it's not the best idea for me to be mucking about with people's finances. So I blogged and started looking forward to next week when my nose will start to peel and I'll look like I have face leprosy. Whoopee.

MONTOYA DELENDA EST!