|This is exactly what Wednesday night looked like at my house.|
And let me tell you, if you thought the proletariat just existed but didn't really live, you've never met a virus. I don't even think they read derivative stuff.
"You're being a baby," they say. "Quit overstating things," they say. "You weren't that sick," they claim. "You always think you're sicker than you really are," they sneer. "You are so histrionic when you're sick," they remind me.
But they don't know. They didn't see the grim reaper standing next to their bed with a gleam in his eye casually sharpening his scythe with a "Carcass Rulez" whetstone.
This brush with plague put me behind on a lot of writing. The two other blogs I write for need new articles and I've only even started one of them. I was also hoping to get a new fiction project started this weekend, and instead--since I was getting about two or three hours of sleep a night--my days were spent hazed out in front of House MD reruns that I kept putting on as background noise for cleaning and then watching after I collapsed in an exhausted heap from the rampant, savage disease raging through my veins with its noxious potency.
You might think I'm overblowing this. You might say--like all the other naysayers, "Chris, it was just a minor cold." But it was a cold like none the world has ever seen. I honestly had a stuffed up nose and a cough. I must have sneezed at least seven or eight times a day. A DAY!!! At one point I had fever that got up near 100--my poor brain was cooking. And I'll have you know that this "minor cold" lasted three days (and if you count the lingering cough, it was really more like five, folks). Three entire days.
I'm lucky to be alive.
|No big deal, they said.|