As I write this, I ain’t feelin’ so hot. Actually, I am kinda hot… running a slight fever of about 100 degrees. The thermometer read 102 degrees a couple of days ago and 101 yesterday, so I am considering myself to be on the mend. I can almost breathe out of one nostril and am only periodically leaking bodily fluids out of the other…so I have that going for me.

There is a pestilence going around – possibly a mutant marriage between the SARS virus from 2003 and the Black Death from the 14th century. I did not “catch” this disease — it caught me. For me to “catch” this mess, I would have had to put forth some effort in acquiring such an affliction. I DID NOT PUT FORTH ANY EFFORT, WHATSOEVER! I did not want this then. I do not want it now. It snuck up behind me in the middle of a nice dinner, smacked me in the back of the head with a giant “yucky” stick, and rendered me useless.

A few nights ago, I went out to dinner with a very beautiful young lady. She is witty, charming, exceptionally good looking — and I see no explainable reason for her wanting to hang out with the likes of me. That evening, my appetite was a little lax. I have been trying to eat healthier (at her urging), so I figured this was just the early results of training my body to crave less red meat (steak, surrounded by mounds of garlic-mashed potatoes, soaking in a pool of beef gravy — but, I digress). However, in the brief time it took to drive back to her place, I developed the sniffles and a slight cough. I walked her to her door and quickly dragged my snotty-nosed self away from her and back to the comfort of my perpetually under-construction man-mansion.

Men (especially this guy) become whiny little children when stricken by the common cold. However, (and I am only writing the following words to prop up my fragile male ego), whatever this thing is, it ain’t no common cold — it is an azzkikker! I am convinced that the verdant ooze dripping from my barely functioning schnozzle is akin to Superman’s green Kryptonite.

My cheeks and nose feel like they have been polished with 0000 steel wool. I have been dabbing at my eyes and blowing my nose with toilet paper — and not the kind cartoon bears seem to like. I never saw the value of spending unnecessary amounts of money on five-ply, ultra-soft, quilted and padded, septic tank clogging, TP — something that is destined to be used only once and unceremoniously flushed away.  However, now that I have sandpapered my face for the better part of a week, I am rethinking my stance — buy either better toilet paper, or start stocking cases of Puffs tissues. Either way, I will be better off.

This entire event is nasty at an entirely new level. I am four days into this pestilence, with no relief in sight. I wake up every morning, struggling to see through matted closed eyes for signs of recovery. Ever the optimist, I keep telling myself that I have been sick before and this, too, shall pass. However, it seems as if the moment one symptom falls away, another one jumps in — sort of a demented, flu-bug tag team match. As my breathing slowly got better and the flow of green nasal goo lessened, my eyes began burning like Dante’s inferno and watering like Niagra. This seems to be a negotiation offering only a bad option or a worse option. The other options are running for the bathroom (for a plethora of reasons too disgusting to mention), or throwing my back out during a convulsing sneezing fit. I did not choose any of them, but I got all of ‘em.

If there were an upside to any of this, it would have to be that I have lost 9 pounds. There are all kinds of trendy diets going around — with names like Keto, Atkins, and South Beach. I am calling the latest diet fad, the “Flu-bug Diet.” You can eat all you want because you will not want to eat anything, and, even if you did, it will not stay in you for very long. The diet works, but I do not recommend it.