D ear My Editor:

I won’t be turning in a column this week. I have a really excellent idea for one involving the 50-foot-woman and a parlor trick with spoons, but I am super duper sick. Hopefully I’ll remember it for next week.

Yes, my illness is somewhere between “Don’t Look at Her Funny or She’ll Cry” and “She Could Go At Any Moment, Best to Order Flowers Now.”

Somewhere between a sneezing fit and that scene in “The Exorcist.”

I’d love to nail it down for you a little better, but I can’t because the fever is making me woozy. I don’t even see words as I type right now; all I can see are tiny red dots. Hopefully someone in the Translation Department can help you through this letter.

I don’t think I’ve been this sick since the time I laid on the couch for three straight days watching “Grey’s Anatomy.” (Thankfully, being so ill made the simpering show seem like a fever dream. To this day, I’m not sure what it was about and before you worry, you should know I’ve been watching one BBC murder mystery show after the next. All my Netflix money is going to Murder.)

Since you asked, my head is all hot and bloated, and my ears feel as though they might pop off. I have re-acquainted myself with Nyquil (Hello, good sir!) and discovered that the coffee table can hold:

3 half-consumed cups of water

Empty pizza box

2 remotes

Dinner from last night

2-liter, Coke

Magic 8-ball (the kind that tells your fortune, Squiggy)

2 magazines (“New Yorker,” “Esquire”) and 3 books (“High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby, “Blood Meridian” by Cormac McCarthy, and — too bad I hadn’t cracked this one yet — “The End of Illness” by Dr. David B. Agus)

Lots of Nyquil

12 lists of things on the coffee table

I discover this over and over again after staring into the other room for fifteen minutes. I then turn back and say, “Holy crap! Look at all this stuff on the coffee table!” and begin making another list, like a goldfish who can write.

Some people want witnesses when they’re sick. They want someone to pat their back and hold their hair when they hurl into the toilet. They want someone fluffing the pillows and rubbing on the lotions and putting it in the basket. They want someone to bring them soup and talk to them. Those people make me sick. Er.

I don’t want anyone to see or hear me hurl. But the real reason I don’t want someone around is I have watched “The Goonies” enough times to know that as soon as one person barfs, another one is sure to follow. So don’t get any ideas about coming over to hold my hair back, because I know you’ll just puke on top of that freshly be-ponytailed hair two seconds after I finish. No thanks, I’ll go this alone.

Anyway, I’m sick and I won’t be turning in a column. Hope you aren’t too angry. Don’t forget how sick I am and that I might keel over at any time…



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