There is something in my gut, and… it doesn’t like me very much…

Why can’t I get warm?   I killed the AC over three fucking hours ago, and the fan isn’t even on.  The goddamn windows are sealed shut. I. Am. Under two thick blankets!  I can barely even breathe from how sealed off this room is — Why can’t I get warm???  This thing in my gut… it’s trying to kill me. It’s winning and I don’t know how to stop it. My joints ache too… possibly because I’ve spent the last few hours lying motionless, thinking about the thing in my gut that’s been trying to kill me. It’s fine unless I move, at which point it starts to try and kill me all over again. So I’ve lain very still… and pondered… waiting for either death or for the thing in my stomach to lose interest and move on to less life-loving bodies than my own. It hasn’t done either yet. So I lie very… very… still.  Why. Can’t.  I. Get. Warm.

And then a mosquito flies past my face. And I shiver even more violently, chilled by the breeze of its wings.

Yeah, it gets bad.

And then the trips to the bathroom start.

Today…

Haven’t been sick in months — not once since this whole working-at-home thing started back in September; and I don’t say that to make it seem like I think I shouldn’t get sick because I’m indoors for weeks at a time… no no… I say it because I go out ONCE… one motherfucking time in almost a whole entire motherfucking month… and I get the motherfucking plague handed to me.

In a glass.

Irony can be a bitch and a half.  See, earlier this week, after getting a fair amount of work done, I broke down under peer pressure (from myself) and decided to have some drinks with some friends.  Night had attendant drama, as is characteristic of such things I suppose, but at least the food and the company was good.  It was just beer for the night.  And it turns out even that was too good for a guy like me.

Turns out ice is best when it’s clean.