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Sick of Being Sick

This post is later than usual. I do not care. I am sick.

Before I go any further, I should probably warn you, my kind, innocent, oblivious reader, that I am currently quite frustrated. I am right now sitting on a hotel bed in London, but unable to go to awesome things like St. Paul’s Cathedral because my throat has been killing me for the past few days. Why does this matter for you? Because I have lost all human empathy. It’s gone. Poof. This cold, which has taken up seemingly permanent residence within my chest, has made me into a callow, coughing carapace, devoid of human warmth.

I am, in a word, grumpy.

It also matters for you because very little worth recording has actually happened in the last few days. My current plan for this entry is to rant in increasingly ridiculous ways about this cold. And probably not much else. So, as my last act as a compassionate human being, I advise you to leave if this does not sound like an interesting subject.

Normally, semester sicknesses come in waves. Normally, you get sick once at the end of the first month, and then once more around the third or fourth. This bout has blindsided me. I had hoped to get some real work done over the weekend, considering my plans to go to London. Work did not happen. Not enough, anyway.

And one would think that, after having sufficiently impeded my productivity, this early plague would have felt its job complete and left me to my own devices (after all, I am more than capable of shirking work on my own, thank you very much). But no! This was no ordinary, lackadaisical cold. This was an overachieving cold. This cold decided that a weekend’s worth of workless, wasted time was only the first of its duties. Had I been expecting clear sinuses when I got on my Monday morning train? Ho-ho! And had I hoped to fall asleep, wake up, eat food, or do things of any description without hacking enough to shame fur ball-spewing cats? This, too, proved beyond my fortunes, for my cold was–and is, as I write this–determined to prove itself a champion, a paradigm of parasites, a real role model for other colds. This cold is running the cold marathon: six days and counting.

The fever, at least, is gone. And in this, I take some grim satisfaction. For I know that the its passing indicates the (hopefully painful) obliteration of countless rhinoviruses.

Yes, I am feeling schadenfreude towards a cold. Shut up.

And I’m sure that some people might consider all this to be something of an overreaction to getting sick. Those people are right, but it’s all I had to write about. It was either this, or a meditation on the patch of white on my ceiling that’s slightly whiter than the rest of the ceiling. So you’re welcome. I spared you from a blog about watching paint dry.

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