Summer Colds Suck Big Donkey Dick

Much as I fantasize about calling in sick on beautiful summer Mondays and skipping work, I've never actually done it. The guilt of sitting at the beach or riding my bike on Angel Island while everyone else is slaving away is usually enough to prevent me from doing so. Or perhaps it's just the fear of getting caught (me on cell phone: "Yeah, Boss, thanks for checking in, I'm *cough*cough* feeling a little better. What's that? Oh, that's just the sound of my, um, relaxation CD, uh, called 'Soothing Ocean Sounds'... Yeah, those seagulls sound realistic don't they. What? Uh, yeah, so does that Coast Guard helicoptor...")

Today, however, on just such a glorious Monday, I'm neither at the office nor on the beach. No, I have not left my apartment at all despite the fact that it's well over 80 degrees inside and I'm miserable. Because, yes, I'm actually sick. I was doing so well there for a while. I had successfully avoided falling down in the last several circuits of Ring-Around-the-Office, had survived unscathed through the last two roommate scourges, and blam. Completely out of nowhere, my sinuses have been running as if someone turned on a faucet, my lungs ache, my throat hurts. It tingles and prickles behind my face like I just snorted swimming pool water up my nose, and it won't go away. I had no idea that it was humanly possible to produce so much mucus.

Gross. I know. If you need me, I'll be on the couch playing Guitar Hero on the Playstation.