Just a quick post to let everyone know that, at least in my neck of the woods, there’s a fairly heinous bug going ’round. I somehow picked it up last Sunday–when I felt great and walked around the city, enjoying the weather and plotting out my post about the city-transforming Taylor Swift weekend–because by Monday, I was a veritable cartoon character depicting “sick”: thermometer dangling from the corner of my mouth, sneezing uncontrollably, ragged pajamas, wadded-up tissues surrounding me, hot water bottle by my side, swigging Buckley’s mixture straight from the bottle.

It has been a tenacious cold or flu (what is the difference, anyway?) all week, and what nobody ever really talks about is how boring it is to be ill. There is truly nothing to do except helplessly power through, lie on the sofa, desperately ingest western and alternative medicines, watch rubbish online, and wonder if you have Ebola. I had COVID over two years ago–which is just a bad flu, one that was brutally-propagandized, seemed to only affect those who were vaccinated, and proved the adage that you can fool all of the people all of the time–and it was pretty nasty, but being sick usually is. I don’t even have the mental wherewithal to be creative, but I did purchase Moon Unit Zappa’s memoir on Kindle and I can’t put it down. It has been the only highlight in a week of aggravating lows.

I’d post a header pic of my kaffing, leaky, congested self, but why? Instead, I have given you Annie, the sweetest companion I have ever known, a true beauty queen, and who has been sleeping next to me every night in solidarity despite my endless phlegm purging. Lord knows I can’t actually have another human in my bed right now; nobody would benefit from such a coarse, unappealing scenario.

Stay well, I hope to write properly soon.

Love,

Snotty Little Nadya.