A Dose of Infection!!! Oh, Noes!!! Bring Out Your Dead!!!

Hah, not the piercings, peasants, but my lungs, my good ol' lungs.

Had to leave work early today. I could barely talk, and breathing hurt, and I was alternately sweating like a pig and freezing like a frozen thing. Everyone else in the call center was just freezing.

Practically as soon as I signed in, I begged one of my supervisors--who kept moving away from me, because I was both coughing and sweating copiously--to turn on one of the ceiling fans halfway between his desk and mine. He backed away some more, and he said I could turn it on myself, just go to this pylon in the corner, there's a hi-lo switch. . . .

Ladies and gentlemen, we had fan! And glares, since everyone else was cold.

A little later, as I executed a delirious Mary Tyler Moore-spin under the fan, I told a coworker between wracking coughs: "I wish my desk was right here."

My supervisor: "I don't."

Another coworker kept going "sooey" and telling me to go home 'cause I was probably giving everyone the swine flu. I finally asked the scheduling supe if I could leave early if I brought in a doctor's note. I could, so I did. It's not like they woulda had much choice at that point, anyway. I lost my voice shortly after I left. They'd have been paying me to do bugger-all, since I'd have been unable to answer a phone.

Doc prescribed antibiotics and special cough medicine with codeine in it, so Nyquil can go fuck its mother.

Was gonna see Wolverine tonight with friends, but it means delaying the antibiotics--seriously don't want the side effects starting when I'm in transit or in cinema--so I might not. . . .

But I really wanna. I probably will. It's not like I have to jog in place for the length of the movie. My lungs should be fine for a little while longer. And my friends already know I'm sick, so if they're still badgering me to come along, that means they don't mind the risk of contagion. Love me, love my viruses.

Nevertheless, my piercings are all swollen and crusty. I keep them clean, and choose to see that crusty swollenness as healing. But my face kinda hurts again, so I'm a bit worried.

Dose of the Plaaaaague. . . !

I'm sick.

I mean physically, not just mentally. The horrible stomach-y bits are over, or seem to be. Now I'm just blowing my nose and wheezing.

Don't got much to say, except "howdy, y'all!" And for your viewing enjoyment, I present:





Just because it's so beautifully done. The very height of steampunkery, for my money . . . not that I paid any :D

I'd fit in much better on an airship than I ever will in an office.

Had a godsmack of an idea for a short story on the way to work Thursday morning. Worked on it between calls all day and Friday, late into the night, despite my viral subversion. It's a romantic comedy about the Antichrist. I think it's going well. Should be editing it now, but I'm exhausted. Laundry will have to wait till tomorrow, or possibly next week.

Chores, bleh. Library. Groceries. All obligations out of the way of me and twelve solid hours of sleep . . . typing is hard when I have attention span of--ooh! Shiny--


"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft