Greetings from death’s door! I don’t like it here very much! The weather is rubbish, for one thing: constant showers of phlegm.
I’m ill. I’m very, very ill. This is the first time I’ve been sick for more than two days since…ever. I’m so sick that SiC (heh) stayed home on Monday to take care of me. And then he played Playstation all day. Although I think he did make me a LemSip at one point. My hero!
I’ve been feeling a bit off since last week, actually; but when TB and Chicken came into town on Saturday I decided it was my bounden duty to fill myself with more drugs than Hank Williams's guitar case. I had a good time, I think? but then I spent most of Sunday weeping and growling at passers-by, and then on Monday my entire body felt like it had been inhabited by fire ants. French fire ants. I’ve spent the last three days sweating, coughing and moaning; and, since I unfortunately just finished reading Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year, engaging in some rather fanciful visions of my own grim demise. O misery! Being sick is for dopes.
Adding insult to injury, I’m off to balmy Canada on Saturday to visit my ailing Gran. It will be nice to see her again, but in all honesty she’ll probably spend the whole time calling me ‘Steve’ and forget I’ve been there the second I leave. And if you ask me how much I miss Canada in March, my response will be about as warm as the weather. Ask me how much I want to take two trans-Atlantic flights in a week, and my response will be a bunch of incoherent screaming.