I Want to Be More Things That Equal Sexy and Fewer Things Equal Gross (and Some Berryman)

I keep reading about how everyone's weekends were not the thrill-ride to happiness that we were all promised our weekends would be, and mine was no exception.

Oh, there were some fairly decent parts. I am sure that Friday night was a decent affair at our pub of choice, but there's no guaranteeing that since I can't seem to properly recall most of the evening. I am no teetotaller, but I am not the sort to lose track of how many drinks I've had, either; at least, I wasn't that sort until Friday night. On Friday, I was very much that sort of drinker, and IT IS NOT WORTH IT. I apologize for the scary yelling capital letters, but I think this is worthy advice to pass on. I could very well be sitting here looking back on what might have been an excellent start to my weekend if only I could remember any of the finer details. As it is, all I remember are snippets of worrying about someone's laptop, wondering where the hell all my cigarettes were disappearing to (I don't worry about that sort of thing too much, because I think it's somehow a kind of karmic justice for the fact that I smoke at all), reading a few paragraphs of the New York Review of Books, and Friday showing up near the end of my ability to tolerate another drop of alcohol.

Saturday was long and lazy, reaching its zenith of excitement when we went to see "Sideways" with Friday and P. As the house lights were going on at the end of the film, I swallowed and discovered that my tonsils were swollen and sore. Hoorah. I spent the rest of the evening sipping on a coke and trying to keep my eyes open.

Sunday morning found me in profound discomfort. It wasn't as profound as that time I found myself whimpering for God to end my misery while my face was contorted into this rictus grimace, but it was profound enough. I ended up going to bed at 5:00 pm, and at 6:30 am on Monday morning, I knew that I was definitely not up for work yet. Swollen glands, the sniffles, diarhea, bloodshot eyes, and aching bones are not proper things to bring to a busy office environment.

In the moments when I wasn't sleeping, and there were many of them, because lying down hurt, I spent my time designing a template for an acquaintance of mine. She/he/it has not given her/his/its permission for me to link to her/him/it, so all I can do is show you a small screen capture of the design. I do likes it, I does, and I hope the she/he/it likes it as much. Designing weblog templates while uncomfortably ill seems to pay off.

Now it is my lunch hour, and my Tuesday morning at work looked something like this: type a couple of paragraphs for a letter, run to the bathroom, photocopy and mail some envelopes, run to the bathroom, file, run to the bathroom, enter some data, run to the... you get it. My guts are going to be the cleanest guts in town, but I'm going to need one of those donut cushions for my keister by the end of this.

Do you know what is really fabulous about this whole intestinal trouble thing on the ass end of this illness? Tonight is the Fiery One's last night in town before he leaves yet again on another work trip. I usually prefer to be healthy, happy, and not worrying so much about using the facilities repeatedly when he and I are trying to spend quality time together in preparation for almost two weeks apart. On a day like today, what woman wouldn't want to be more things that equal sexy and fewer things that equal gross?

"Dream Song 134: Sick at 6 & sick again at 9" by John Berryman

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So Much of Nothing and Some Herrick

Speedy Weekend, Froggy Spoke Sooth, And Some O'Hara