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Sick Puppy This is what it's like when I write while I'm sick. I'm in my office, at my desk, praying that I will somehow manage to get face-time with my boss and thereby finish up this project, so that we can move on to the next stage of panic, disorder, and general cluelessness in this task we're currently calling my "job". Truth, though, at this point, I may be too far gone to be useful in any sort of discussion. I've begun coughing frequently. A loud, hacking, deeply monstrous sound that produces nothing resembling satisfaction. My eyelids are growing very heavy. My left eye is very itchy. My nose is alternating stuffy, runny, and both. When I inhale through it, I feel as though pins are being driven into my throat. When I go to blow my nose in the bathroom, it produces all the satisfaction of . . . Never mind, it doesn't produce any satisfaction. Every joint in my body aches, and they all seem to be working about as well as they would if they were constructed out of steel and not lubricated. My back, on the sides, in the middle, tells me I've been beaten with a baseball bat. I know this to be a lie. It is usually roasting hot in my office, but I have been sitting at my desk in a long wool coat for the last few hours. I've been unceremoniously informed that I don't look good and it isn't cold in here and I should go to the medical centre. Vision becoming blurry. Eyelids becoming heavier. These are not good signs. I thought at the end of the day yesterday that I was on the mend. Clearly, I was wrong. r
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