Last night, I made the mistake of going out to a play and drinks afterward with a big group of people I didn't know well. The evening was really fun, and I mainlined cough drops and kleenex so I wouldn't hack up a lung in the theater. Unfortunately, I talked for most of the night and drank a Negroni and ate a slice of pizza and, well, when I woke up at 4 am, my throat was on fire and my head was exploding. I've almost lost my voice and my chest feels heavy and constricted. In short, I'm getting worse.
I'm not doing too well today. We went to a small antique fair near our house, walking in the drizzle, and afterward I crawled back into bed and haven't left since. I'm at that "sick of being sick" point, but I've pushed too hard, and the only remodeling that's going to happen this weekend is me editing the clutter out of these photos, taken from my bed.
Please enjoy the birdseye view of such delights as my "Still Life with Masochism and Drug Paraphernalia," two views of my kitsch faux-stained glass lamps, the bakelite knob on one of our dressers, several extremely unflattering shots of me, the lock on my grandmother's cedar chest, my curtains, the corner of the molding above the closet, and introducing Boris, my semi-removable chest implant and all around man Friday. Mr. Reluctant appears as a rock-n-roll groupie and is responsible for washing the sheets and making the bed (all while I lay dying in it). Now that's impressive.
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