Burn After Reading

First of all, there is an itch behind my eyes and a squeezing sensation at the tops of my cheekbones. My body makes a violent jack-knife, and the climactic, thunderous explosion that comes next is followed by the chaos of five shrieking cats fleeing in five different directions for their forty-five lives. The exception is tiny, fragile Sidney, who is still sitting in the same place, but who is now staring at me with her best, wide-eyed WTF expression.

I am fighting the winter cold, and the winter cold is winning. My nose is running, my head is stuffed, I am cold and shivering, and every part of my body is aching - even the bits that I seldom use anymore. For the past thirty-six hours, I have been curled into a whining, whimpering knot of undefined tissue, which is incapable of leaving the apartment, answering the door, checking its e-mail or or even turning its smartphone back on.

Some people will just tough it out; get up, get out and get on with their day. They'll suck it up, go to work, and infect everyone that they meet with the Black Death. I can't even play the shoelace game with my buddy Cole.  

Turner Classic Movies has been running a marathon of John Wayne westerns today, and I've been lying on the couch with my mug of (tasteless) dark-roast coffee, watching valiantly (Brie, Cole and Sid like to try to catch the little horses). But to be honest, I couldn't say for certain which films were shown. Maybe all of my friends are right, and he did only make one movie.

I'd really like to pin this all on the manky, old nylon Santa beard that I was wearing on Sunday, but I suspect that the timeline is wrong. My body has probably been tinkering with this particular biological bomb for a week or so now, and soon all of the people who know me will start to drop like autumn leaves. The Tall Lady is already a little hoarse (neeeiiiigh).

What would the Duke do?

Thanks again for dropping by and don't forget to wash your hands when you leave.