fiddlesticks

So I’m bunkered down at home with some manner of head-cold, influenzy chest-cough hellspawned something-or-other, hoping that I luck out and that the cure is some combination of coffee, fruit juice and mind-numbing television.

Being sick does not bring out the best in me I’m afraid. I sleep a lot, don’t talk much and generally slither around trying to find a warm rock to curl up on that I can eyeball things from and make snide remarks at under my breath. It’s one of those grumpy hermit things, I’d just like to get my regular body functions back in order so I can get on with the business of living.

It’s an appalling set of circumstances really, my joints and muscles are rusty or have gone on strike, the lungs and sinuses are operating on a skeleton crew and somebody forgot to check the amount of ventilation inside the skull before mixing those laundry chemicals. It’s an atrocious way to be.

But at least I’ve got my health, and if you haven’t got your health then what have you got?

Ahh, crap.

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