Monday afternoon. Arranged fresh linguine di spinachi alla pomodoro to arrive at my doorstep all phone style. Apocalyptic door buzzer blazes. Attempt to stand up from my couch and instead perform a face plant. I ate lumber.

In the distance I hear a faint blaring. Its my door buzzer again. Climb up the wall to hit the open button. Flushes and tingles wave downwards towards my fingertips and toes. Sweat escapes my body. Propped against my apartment door I wait for the delivery guy. He hesitantly hands me the bill wondering what demon has mounted my frame. The twenty quivers spastically as I hand it to him. Plop the bag on the ground, and stumble towards the couch again. Regaining composure I determine that food is possible to consume.

Later that evening, through a soliloquoy of coughs and throat garbles I accept an invite from the homies to hang.

Others in the posse wearing shrouds of recovery. Flashback two weeks prior in the midst of this sickness I thought I was getting over, welcoming smooches and sharing of drinks. Quite possible that health disaster ground zero for my social circle is located in the center of my lungs. At least they can't say I never gave them anything.

Put the Heisman on the chronic pass. Knew if I toked it would have initiated a fury of chest and throat horror. Limited myself to only four Stoli Vanils on the rocks during the course of the revelry at The Edge, liquor is a purging force anyway. Kept breaking out into cold sweats. Deliriously spouting off random phrases and commenting on perceptions that were solely in my perview. Still capable of conquering feebs on the pool table. I believe I horked a loogie onto the felt accidentally, but no one noticed. Ignoring all symptoms of worsening health I plodded through the phlegm till the bar gates crashed down. Still had to present a convincing argument to the crowd that it was in my best interest to go home and sleep rather than continue to the after set.

Swig the Robitussin. Passed out as soon as I stopped coughing. Fun filled non sleeping session of being jarred awake every two hours with head vein popping, eye watering, larynx splitting coughing.

Concede defeat. Cause holy spunk buckets, I am on sickness lockdown. I will allow doctors to poke and prod and issue medication. Tell the jobby job, in my treble blown voice, I am heading to the doc's and they shouldn't expect me.

The medical center connected to my HMO is kinda fun. First of all, it's habla espanol friendly. Half the crowd always latin. I love NYC's latin half. Also the joint is a learning facility. This means a heavy rotation of post graduate medical students are always on point. Occasionally the normally pesky examination rigamarole is spiced up with a cute young chick doc. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, chick docs. Actually, any perky cute young female professional in their professional gear always turns me on. Substitute teachers, aspiring lab assistants, just passed the bar fresh faced lawyers, first year doctors, etc. Yummy.

Greeted by a cherubic Indian princess. Dr. Patel had gentle fingers. And, when she congratulated me for quitting cigarettes back in November of 2000, it felt like she patted me on the head and handed me a cookie. Decent examination.

A throat and chest infection is raging inside of me. She prescribed a potent five day, smack the shit out of the invading microbes, horse pill. Also an aerosol breather thingy, like asthmatics use, to allieviate the throat buggies. She assuaged my worries over the fact that I fell out. A combination of not eating much and the fact that my lungs are not processing oxygen as effeciently as they should caused a low blood sugar, low oxygen body fart.

Currently I have returned to work after a two day hiatus, and I am medicated to the point of silliness. Punchy. Should be a skull loopy lung clammy good time.