I got sick again, with bells on. I think I'm being punished for some vague sins I committed in 1987 - if I recall correctly, 1987 was kind of a banner year for Felicity sinfulness - so I'm sure I did something dreadful enough for this retribution. Actually, I don't know what the hell is going on; I just know that while I said I was sicker than I'd ever been before in my life in January, that record wouldn't hold long. The past four days I've been sicker than I was in January. This has been no fun at all and I still feel like warmed over . . . something. Something horrible. Not only have I not left my house until today, I have barely even left my bedroom. I was too sick to check my email. Too sick to tweet, even! That is extremely ill, by god, that is your post modern typhoid yellow fever bubonic plague kinda illness right there.
I went to the doctor - a cute doctor, with eyelashes to die for, a doc in the box over on Patton Avenue, with a surly CNA and a dirty floor - on Friday and he gave me antibiotics which have done nothing and which I now suspect of being a placebo. When the fever was spiking on Saturday afternoon at 102 and wouldn't go down and I was contemplating asking somebody to take me to the hospital in between bouts of flying around the desert, I called and begged the doc in the box office for help. They told me to take tylenol and call them tomorrow. I knew that they were closed on Sundays so I hung up embittered, contemplated the conspiracy against me and prepared to die, which I somehow didn't quite manage. Instead I was just miserably, horribly, eternally ill and unable to breathe through my nose or sleep more than three hours at a time and I kept sweating through my pajamas and my sheets.
Now I am at work, dizzy and my ears are ringing but I'm dressed in something other than Mighty Mouse pajama bottoms and I even put on earrings. I don't know why I keep on getting sick like this. I don't know why I got sick just as this blog had a small brush with fame - thank you, Jonathan Carroll and Shakespeare's Sister and everyone for the kind words and suddenly improved page hits, I meant to write something thoughtful and thankful and cogent and possibly even humorous, maybe even wry, god help us all, but instead I decided to become way too involved with a box of Puff's Plus with Aloe and Vicks and damn, opportunity has no doubt fled.
Oh well. I will trade fame, right now, for not getting sick like this every two or three weeks. Because this getting sick every two or three weeks is the fucking pits and it has to stop. I'm about ready to start sacrificing roosters and dancing widdershins around the garage - more, I mean, than usual - or whatever it takes to boost my apparently defunct immune system. Got any weird folk cures? Bring them on. I will try them.