Delirious ramblings brought to you by...

I've been sick as a dog for the past few days. If you've been following my tweets then you know about this, mystery illness-of-death that doesn't so much kill me as make me wish I were dead. My bedside stand is littered with the indicators of illness. My sheets tousled, damp from the cold sweat of sleepless, feverish nights.

And all I want to be doing is working in the store, but most of the time I'm too sick to even sit at the computer for a stretch of anything longer than an hour or two.

So I spend most of the time thinking about all the filthy innuendos that relate to illness. Beyond the obvious head-cold references to 'blowing' (a wee bit sexier in another context), it occurred to me that my relationship with the tissue box sounds marvelously scandalous: tangled in the sheets together, not remembering any more which tissue box it was that I went to bed with, days and nights blurring together...

The fact that I've been high for three days on a complex cocktail of cold medicine makes this all seem much funnier than it probably is.