July 6th, 2004

Karl

Merde, numéro deux or, It Must be SARS

Whatever virus has its cillia about my cellular structure, it is not the common cold. Though my sinuses (sinii?) go from clear to clogged without pattern, and yea! though I hack up the occasional lung and even find myself abed early and risen late, 'tis no common cold that afflicts and hounds me like a ravenous, spoiled child before the abomination that is a motorized ice-cream truck.

No, though my skin be clammy, I suffer no fever; though my spirit sinks through the black depths of self-pity, and I snap and bitch at co-workers like a second-rate prof with tenure; though my nasal cavities see-saw from full to arid with neither rhyme, nor reason; it is clear that what ails me is a disease as mysterious as it is malign.

Of my mind's 12 billion neurons only half fire in proper sequence. My humours are overwhelmed by bile, black. And my muscles ache for exercise I have neither heart nor will to provide.

Merde, indeed. If I don't feel better tomorrow, to a quack physician will I hie my torpid form, demanding pointless medicaments to balm my spirit if not my immortal soul. (Oh yes, and - I hope - my body.)

Beyond that, I have little to report. My apartment is as chaotic as the world and I care not much more about the former, than I do for the latter at this, dis-spirited point in time.

Whoever it was that said, "When I stub my toe, that's tragedy; when you slip upon the peel of the noble banana and break your hip, that's comedy," knew well whereof he spoke.

Exeunt
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