Maladies

I'm writing this from my sick bed. Sounds deliciously Victorian, doesn’t it? I should be wearing some soft lace draped muslin nightie, sipping a draught of something vile yet effective (possibly with absinthe?), while writing beautiful cursive on fine linen paper.

Nope. On an iPad, wearing sweats and an oversize T, sipping water.

How horribly unromantic!

I'm always stunned when, on very rare occasion, I've a cold. 'I have Nf2 dammit! Doesn't that exempt me from all other maladies including the common cold?!'

What? No? Damn.

I’ve tried ignoring this pesky ailment—getting up offa my sick bed, running all my errands, doing my usual poorly performed housework, acting as though nothing’s amiss. I’ve attempted triking my way outta this damn cold. So far, no joy.

A friend told me that all I can really do is wait it out. But...but...there's life to be lived—I don’t have time for this shit!

I think I’ll suit up and go for a quick ride before the garbage trucks come around. Invariably, they leave herds of empty, overturned, green bins in their wake. Cycling on trash day is not unlike playing Pacman, Pong or Dodgeball.

To paraphrase L.M. Montgomery, A cold in the head on a glorious September morning is an immoral thing...