I’m coming down with something. I can feel it.
I’m still in the midst of dealing with the current situation (all eyedrops, tear-filled mornings, and suspicious glances at the office: “Where the hell have you BEEN for the last two weeks?”), and on the way home today I get the itch.
You know, the ITCH. The you’re-on-the-verge-of-getting-a-brutal-throat-cold itch. The “welcome to phlegm-town” itch. The “oh-oh” itch.
So I’m <aheming> and clearing my throat and trying to pretend that no, nothing’s wrong, I just swallowed that scalding hot coffee too quickly this morning and scarred the back of my throat. Ice cream will fix what ails me. (Denial is a powerful friend.) But, I know I’m on the verge of illness, and I don’t like what I see. Blame it on the winter - that’s what all Canadians do.
I’m reading Spalding Gray’s Gray’s Anatomy at the moment, partially because he makes me laugh out loud on the bus (and thusly incuring the wrath of the rather strange, frizzy-haired woman that rides the 14 bus in the morning), but mostly because in it he also suffers from an eye disorder: a Macula Pucker. It sounds hilariously organic (like some kind of funky, frou-frou mollusk) but it’s actually rather serious.
Tip for the forlorn: read about someone more self-centred, neurotic, and self-obsessed than yourself. It makes you feel better.
Still, that doesn’t help the itch. <AHEM !>
