I knew I was coming down with something on Thursday, but wasn't sure what. I woke up Friday morning like I'd been mugged. I drag my sorry self to campus, then cancel class, then drive home to Indy so I could convalesce. 5 hours later I wake up on fire and watch TV for a bit, then realize that I probably shouldn't be getting weepy watching prime time TV. I take my temp: 103. With aspirin and such, I'm holding at 101 and I'm wearing 4 layers of clothing. Not fun. Not fun at all. And I have lots to do: record reviews. 2 papers on modernist poetry that I keep putting off. etc. At least I have books to read. I just have to pick wisely: T. S. Eliot makes absolutely no sense when one has a fever. Kinda like how Henry James makes no sense when you have to read him in an airplane.
More later. I'm wondering just how many aspirin I can take in a day.
I remain (but barely)