From my deathbed

Just wanted to let you know that I’m dying again. I came home Friday night from an evening of frivolity with my friend Rob, and I was feeling just a tickle of a sore throat. I said, “Hmm. I hope I’m not coming down with something.”

Well, coming down with something I most certainly was. It hit me like a ton of crap while I was sleeping Friday night: sore throat, headache, fever, chills, despair, sense of impending doom, freaky dreams you only have when you’re sick, the whole nine yards.

I spent most of the weekend in bed, though I was able to get up now and then to shuffle around the house and perform a few non-labor-intensive tasks like checking my e-mail and watching TV. Today (Monday) I believe I am on the mend, and I have been tended to by my friend Luscious Malone, who brought me some of that magic soup where you just microwave the little can it comes in and sip it, no spoon required.

Do you find that no matter how old you are, or how far away you live, your first instinct when you get sick is to call your mom? Mine is. I usually don’t call, though, because then she’ll just feel sorry for me and worry about me, and who needs that? But if we lived in the same city, I can assure you, I’d be at her house, lying on her couch, making her wait on me hand and foot until I was better.