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Feel sorry for me, dammit

Home sick today. Sinuses feel like they will push out of my cheeks and explode, spraying snot all over the cat. At work yesterday it was just the opposite. My nose, which had drained all day Sunday like I had poured Drano down my nostrils, was dried up from Nyquil and the cold and sinus medicine I’d taken. It was so dry that just at the end of a meeting, blood began to pour down my cheek. Dripped scarlet all over my white shirt. Of course the restrooms were a hundred yards away. I had to pretend like I didn’t have a tissue pressed to my face while I walked the long hall. From what I could tell, though, no one noticed. (I get nosebleeds pretty frequently anyway, though rarely like that. When I was a kid, we were going to Batesville—about an hour’s drive. The bleeding started in Bald Knob and didn’t stop until I puked a giant clot in a sink in the Batesville emergency room. Nothing like that has happened since, fortunately.) I sat at my computer all the rest of yesterday in a stupor and got nothing done. Last night I took a different antihistamine and slept better, but I was up every hour to piss. Finally, this morning my temperature was high and I felt miserable, so I called in. I’m parking myself on the futon the rest of today.



Dear imaginary friends,

I hate all the unsympathetic lot of you.


I was going to say get well soon or something to that effect, but you said you would be on the futon all day, so I thought you wouldn’t see it.

I might believe you if I didn’t know for a fact that, regardless of what I say to the contrary, it is empirically verifiable that I am never more than three feet away from the Interwebs at any given moment.

poor, poor boy.

kl is better than all you imaginary friends combined.

As I once heard a preacher say in a sermon, “there are certain privileges to married life.” I’m certain he was talking about the guaranteed sympathy one has when one gets sick. Yes, I’m quite certain that’s what he meant.

Yeah, but apparently we single people sleep better.

Also, while you’re being sick, why not find out what gender your prose is? I’m apparently male, once again. I’ll have to tell my mother I really am the son she never had.

And. . . oh yeah, there was another point to this comment—I’m sorry to hear you’re sick.

That thing’s cool! According to this post, I’m male, but I suspect it’s probably because I’m whining shamelessly in it.

Thanks for your well wishes; I’m back to work today, a little better, though still with the sinusy pressure, which really sucks.

i’m female! woo hoo!