Sick in spring.

Not sick of spring. I had a minor tickle in my throat last night. I knew what was coming. Minor sickness. And all that. Oh, well, it could be worse. I could have a real job or classes to go to or teach. Instead, I have two large-ish papers to put together in the next two and half weeks. More like two. I guess. So "having" to stay home today in my PJs didn't exactly throw a wrench into the work I needed to get done today. No other kind of heavy metal tool, either. I have hardly eaten a thing since yesterday, and I can't even stand to drink coffee. Neither are like me. I don't feel like doing anything, but that's totally like me. So there is some normalcy, you see. Is that a word? Cold-drugs are good and bad. On the plus side, I can stop coughing and dripping. Very good. On the other hand, there's the FOG. I have the fog. Well, I don't have it. It's a veil. Helmet. Glasses. Fuzzy screen for my eyes and ears and tongue and nose. Not my body, though. Everything is very feely-touchy-cold. Fleece and flannel pants are Okay, but don't actually touch me please. Not for a few days at least. No matter how buxom. Voluptuous. Or huggy. Need to work and sleep. Good to be alive. But flowers and greenery give me a headache today. Please some normal rain tonight and softness and quiet. No loud neighbors. Snow would be better, though. Snow would be soft and quiet. Like I said. No hope for that. Tea. More tea. The Ramones on the computer speakers. Maybe an episode of "La Femme Nikita" or two before bed. Cozy bed. Nice for sleeping. Chair hard. Butt hurts. Bed calling. NyQuil and French cookies. Mmm. Laters. Peace and alley 5000 to all my kids in Baltimore and beyond. And other things that I would never actually say.