No alarms and no surprises


Sick as a damn dog. I’m not sure what I’ve got or what brought it on, but it’s here and it’s kicking my ass. This unholy bacterial despair settled in on me last night after I made myself dinner. Granted, I am not the gourmetest of the gourmet, but I’ve never actively poisoned myself. Perhaps it’s just coincidence, a truly evil and patient virus timing its appearance to coincide with my meal to break not only my body but my very spirit. Maybe it’s the fact that I cooked rotting raven and moldy cheese quiche. Whatever the source, now that I’m sweating and aching, I’m filled with a bitter self-doubt. What if it was my food? If I’m incompetent to the point of self-destruction in the kitchen, perhaps I’ve grievously overestimated my abilities in other areas.

A fever is a wicked thing, it wreaks havoc on both mind and body without mercy, and in such a battered, poisoned state, even an emotional glacier like myself is vulnerable to dangerous mood swings and flickers of insanity. Who knows what devilish thoughts and desires will float to the surface of my fragile consciousness. I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself on the roof of Costco in Fremont at 3 AM, dressed in a complete St. Louis Cardinals baseball uniform engaged in chaotic hand to hand combat with a battalion of imaginary beetle-men. Stranger things have happened, as they say.

Luckily for the rest of humanity, my current living situation pretty much approximates a level 4 CDC quarantine. The world has little to fear from my vicious germs, if only because the chances of my spreading them are so small. Averaging about 30 minutes of face-to-face human interaction a day, including time at work, is basically as isolated as is physically possible in modern society. I live alone in hermit-like solitude; I spend my days peering through the blinds at the neighbors, frightening them deeply with top-of-my-lungs Conan the Barbarian reenactments. They must think I’m some meth-crazed schizophrenic; they simply aren’t the quality kind of people who would appreciate a good war cry to Crom from a neighbor in his tidy-whities. God help them if I get the urge to harass them in my fevered state, who knows what I’ll do with my already-flimsy self control destroyed by illness.

Whatever this evil sickness is, it’s sure making my god damn stomach hurt. Although I can pretty much say for certain I haven’t ingested a hand full of nails, shrapnel, and broken glass at any time in the last two days, my abdomen tells me otherwise.

Now it’s time to slink back off to bed. I’ve switched to screwdrivers and Coors Light, the two healthiest beverages available (Vitamin C and a high water content), so hopefully my sturdy immune system will have me back up to speed by tomorrow morning. Never listen to doctors; they’re a strange and disingenuous crowd who are not to be trusted. I’ve been told by several that a Dixie cup of Tylenol chased with a six pack of C- is not the preferred treatment for illness, which shows what a bunch of god damn charlatans they really are. Hell, I’m feeling better alre78sdf8xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx



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