The Cold Grip of Contagion

I’m sick.

I’m sure there was a time when those two words were less ambiguous.  Because it amuses me, I will clarify.  I am not “sick” in the way of a sweet move pulled off by a skilled skateboarder.  I am not “sick” in the way of a gruesome murder.  I’m just feeling ill.  My body is host to some horrible, tiny creatures, and my natural response is to produce gallons of snot.

Yesterday, I stayed home.  I missed out on work, Computer Club, and writing with Michael.  I stayed in bed most of the day, then shuffled off to my computer in the garage in the afternoon to continue by Star Trek: TNG marathon.

Today, I’m still producing mucus valiantly, a True Champion of Phlegm.  I’m at work, though, coughing and sneezing and making my coworkers wish I’d stayed home another day.

That’s pretty much all I have to report, at the moment.  I’ve willfully left my short story alone.  I’ll try editing it later, if I’m feeling up to it.  I haven’t made any progress on my novel in about a week.  There’s some plotting I need to do before I can really continue.  This Saturday, I have a band concert which I probably won’t be able to attend, and a writer’s group meeting which I desperately want to attend.  We’ll see how I’m feeling in a few days.

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