The running nose. The harsh pain when I breathe. The really harsh pain when I cough ...
You see, the marvelous Marnina got me out of the apartment on Friday and saw me *gasp* socializing, not just with one new person but with six! (Or was it five? Whatever.) One of whom invited me to a party on Saturday, which meant that I socialized with new people for two nights in a row.
And one of those bastards obviously saw fit to somehow pass along this filthy chest-cold, which explains why this Morning Pages entry is being typed at 12:55 P.M.
Not that I'm complaining, not really.
I had an awful lot of fun on Friday, despite my misanthropic tendencies. Hell, I even danced and enjoyed myself while so doing and no matter that I fear I resembled Seinfeld's Elaine engaged in the same activity.
It was good to be reminded that I can socialize with more than one or two people at a time. Even better, Marnie and her friend Vanessa especially are people I want to see again.
But still, I'm paying for my sins (venal as they were - delicious Chinese food at 3:00 A.M. surely doesn't necessitate the debilitation I am suffering now, does it?
Well. "Man is born to suffer as the sparks fly upward."
The cold came on remarkably fast.
My mum called me last night, wanting to discuss my recent rant about vile Michael Ignatief. Somewhat to my surprise (insecurity breeds like vermin when one doesn't regularly practice one's ostensible craft, I fear), my mum (retired journalist and so one well-qualified to offer a professional opinion) thought it a very good rant and further suggested that with some tweeking - a tighter focus: why does it matter that Iggy lies to us?</em> - it maybe be saleable to The Walrus or some similar publication.
Encouraging words, I must say, but I digress.
The cold. That was what I was talking about. I must have spoken with my mum for an hour and a half or so. I felt the first tickle at the back of my throat maybe 10 minutes in and by the time I hung up it was full on me, the pack of wild microbes pouncing like a billion tiny hyenas.
The god damned air show is starting again. No matter that my eyes are crusty and lungs scratchy, there'll be no afternoon nap for the ailing Young Geoffrey this day. Living as close to the water as I do, I suppose I could take myself out into the sun, walk the single block to the bridge over the Lakeshore and watch those winged noise-makers.
But airplanes flying in formation just don't interest me very much, unless one of them decides to fall out of the sky upon my apartment building.
And that's it. A fever has started up (again?) and I can't force myself to type any more.