The last act of “Camille”.

That would be me, minus the flower and the world’s oldest profession.

I have been coughing so hard, at times, that it is a miracle my eyeballs are still in their sockets. My eyes are so bloodshot that W.C. Fields would be proud of me. I feel rather like the armadillo in “Rango”, post 18-wheeler.

I did go into work yesterday, where I closed two cases and opened another, and more or less kept up with things. I had my 1-900 voice. Still do. If you would like me to prank-call your spouse and grumble sweet nothings into his ear, I could probably just manage that. If you need heavy breathing, you are on your own.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, I am liking the play just fine.

I called in sick at the temple, hours later than I should have, because I kept hoping against hope that I would be well by the time I needed to be there. All I ended up being, was inconsiderate. Sometimes my irrepressible optimism is not a virtue. [And frankly, it is feeling the slightest bit repressed this morning, but that will pass.]

I am supposed to have dinner tonight with Brother Sushi. I may have to stand him up. And I am supposed to get together with BestFriend tomorrow. I may have to bail on that as well.

On the other hand, I am knitting a very small hat that I hope will fit Chutzpah and her ilk, and the yarn, at least, is not arguing with me. Unlike, say, the sinus just behind and below my right eye.

I’d like the sinus behind Door Number Three, please. And while I wait for it to be delivered, I’m going to poach my head in the shower.

Later, gators.