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April 7th, 2001

Mumble Mumble
I've been hunkered down under the covers, not able to sleep, just hunkered down, waiting it out. What else do you do? I think the worst is over and I'll be able to go into work on Monday, since I'm assuming tomorrow will be better.

Later, one in the morning, Sunday. Odd, I don't own a thermometer. I will have one when this is over. I'm not worried about a really high temperature, but my balls ache (which I recall is normal with a cold), there is a spot in my lungs that causes me to cough when I lie down on my right side, and various pains from the bed when I lie down on my right. Which means I can't sleep. Remember all the bed stuff? Boy am I going to buy a new bed.

One hour at a time. Took four baths today, the last one not bothering to wash my hair. This is wait time, waiting for the body to come together and the aching forehead to go away. All these years and no thermometer? Can this be? Have I really never had a fever that I wanted to measure just in case? Evidently. Mumble. I'd write more, but my vision is fuzzy, halos blooming around the brighter lights. This would be a hell of an ending for a journal, would it not? I am kidding. Things are OK, they're just the way they are when you have a cold, but I say mumble. Mumble mumble.

No photographs, folks. The quote is by Jeanne Moreau.