Deathbed

I've been near death these last few days. It all started last Sunday night when I felt a tiny tickle in my throat as I watched the Super Bowl. The next day I felt run down, but functional. That Monday night after work, I crashed. Headache, slight fever, congestion. The whole nine yards. I took Tuesday off and seemed to get better. I returned to work Wednesday but Thursday witnessed an acute relapse, which unfortunately coincided with an important presentation I had to give to about forty peer librarians. I got through my presentation relatively unscathed, but went home early.

I've been at home curled up in a fetal position ever since.

I'm feeling better as I write this, Saturday afternoon, but I'm by no means completely healthy. I don't know what kind of wonder bug I contracted but it's a tenacious little beast that has its claws firmly sunk in my upper esophagus. At the height of my fever-induced delirium, I fantasized wrapping my lips around the end of a flamethrower and hitting the trigger because gallons of boiling tea just doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

I'm also picturing scraping the infection off with a butter knife, like sliding peanut better off a slice of bread, but I haven't worked out the logistics of maneuvering the utensil down my throat.