A Seriously Sick Posting

I'm doing great, aside from feeling like the burnt side of a grilled-cheese sandwich. Also, I have a headache, caused, I believe, from gremlins dancing inside my skull.

Did I tell you I was sick? Well, I'm telling you, I'm sick.

My weekend was spent in various fetal positions and immobility attributable to a non-lethal variant of the Martian death flu. In fact, the highlight of my Saturday to Sunday rest was making it to the bathroom before I stained myself.

In the "fun department," I rented "The 40 Year Old Virgin," which is quite a hoot, if you haven't seen it. Really hit close to home.

I was unable to write anything resembling fiction or blog, and if you were wondering, "Gee, I miss that Bookfraud! I need something to hate," now you have an answer. Every time I sat down to type, my fingers went to jelly.

This illness had not disappeared by Monday morning, incapacitating me, in terms of coherence. So instead of my spot-on observations regarding the literary life, I'll leave that to someone else, who raises the problem of blogging vs. writing.

Writing, in the sense of fiction, of course, as this woman shut down her blog because she wasn't writing her novel. I don't know why that a blog should get in the way of Making Literature, but I've been coughing up loogies that resemble the Crab Nebulae and I really don't know what I'm talking about except make the voices stop.

The highlight of my day is eating soup, and I will shut up now, but not before leaving you with something so amazing that it is a miracle we've been able to survive all these years without them: ladies and gentlemen, I present the greatest dwarf KISS tribute band ever, MiniKiss.