Still laboring. . .

. . .under a headcold. My head is so congested that sniffing, and nose blowing causes a delayed high-pitched squeal inside my head, from my sinuses as they decompress. My knees ache. I have to make a conscious effort to eat, as my appetite just seems not to exist. My taste buds are about as keen as Michael Moore's sense of personal hygiene, so nothing even sounds appealing.

There are occasional bouts of drowsiness, and sleep interrupted by intermittent chills and hotflashes. It's not the most miserable I've ever been, but it has been such that I missed class today. I've been completely unable to focus on anything blog-related, preferring to simply sit back and read until the next wave of torpor comes over me, pushing me to once again seek rest in fitful sleep.

I figure another day, and I'll be on the mend. In the meantime, I'll blog as inspiration strikes -- a remote possibility at this point.

Thanks for the well-wishes, to all who sent them. I'll be back. In the meantime, let me leave you with this:

Common Cold

Go hang yourself, you old M.D,!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
In not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.

By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.

A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

-- Ogden Nash