Holy shit, I'm sick.
I have a cold.
No shit, I've folded like a card table. From a cold. I'm not proud of this.
I've worked with broken fingers and toes, torn tendons, stitched up slashes to my hands, head and arm, broke my nose at work at least a couple of times- I didn't miss a day when the Notorious B.O.B. dropped a 50lb lobster trap on my face from about 10 feet over my head. Just drank a bunch of beer, made sure it healed straight, and back to work at 0530 the next day.
But give me a tummyache or a cold, and I turn into a 6-year old girl.
Typhoid Rayray, my right hand man, has 3 little girls. Kids are plague magnets, we all know this.
I haven't had a common cold since my senior year of college. 1998, God help me. Riding Boston's subway system every day, coupled with working out in the weather year round to pay for it, I was constantly infected with something. Boston's T system is a leper colony on wheels. But after I got out of undergrad and refused to ride public transportation afterwards for the most part, I've been skating on what was an ironclad immune system.
Ah well. I'm sure I'll survive. I'd damn well bettter. I'm going home in a week, and want to enjoy the sun and fun. No fun enjoying summer in winter if you've got the sniffles.
Anyhow, I'm not feeling too inspired, so bear with me.
IN THE EMAIL FROM J. M. NEY-GRIMM: The Tally Master….
32 minutes ago