Dear Mr. Echo

I have the plague.

No, no, don't worry, I won't be rolled out to the curb for collection. It's not that bad. Yet.

I"m holed up in my room, huddling inside my hoodie, eating clementines and hoping I don't pee my pants when I sneeze and cough. I know, that whole incontinence thing is embarrassing, isn't it? The upside is that I'm reminded to do Kegels which are their own special kind of fun.

"Why are you making that face?" MathMan asked me.

"What face?"

"I don't know. It's like you're concentrating really hard."

"Oh. I'm counting as I hold a squeeze."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm holding a squeeze. You know - Kegels. I'm counting to ten."

"I see."

"Is it bothering you?" I asked.

"No. In fact, it's kind of improvement over how you've been walking around looking all surprised."

"Ah. Yes. Thank you. I guess."

He's referring to the fact that I've been walking around with my eyebrows lifted up into my hairline. I noticed that my eyelids are starting to get puffy just like my mother's and I can't fucking afford cosmetic surgery.

So surprise it is or when I open my eyes extra wide -- shock.

Dear Mr. Echo

Click the picture for more TMI.

I am officially too sick to write. My brain has taken leave, my typing fingers are in some kind of labor dispute involving Kleenex and hazardous nose waste. In case you'll be requiring a doctor's note, I have an afternoon appointment with cute Dr. Jayson that won't involved showing him my newly vajazzled nether regions. Unless, of course, he thinks that might help me recover from this horrendous crud. Who am I to question "alternative treatments?"

There is a bright side however. This presents a perfect opportunity to trot out this oldie, but goody....

Someone fetch me a petrol bomb, okay?

Until I'm more coherent and full of oxygen,

Bogey Bum