You Be Illin'

Over this weekend, it became more and more obvious to me that last year's flu shot was a $25 better spent toward, I don't know, Motrin in the bulk.

Really, what good can be said of an obsessively recommended health measure that ensures immunity to the wimpier strains that will likely mutate within months, while at the same time permitting the more exotic variants to invade the body? Honestly, this stuff I've got recalls Oregon Trail.

If that weren't bad enough, last October I got my proactive self in line with the elderly to receive the shot early. Today my doctor theorized that the flu vaccine has worn off since that time, allowing the virus easy passage.

It may be safe to assume that most of those aforementioned senior citizens have by now gone on to a better place...

Still, I can't say that I hadn't somewhat exacerbated my illness earlier this weekend. I write papers in my basement now -- chiefly to allow for fewer distractions and more room for periodic pacing and talking to myself. It's actually bolstered the creative process on my last two literary criticism assignments, but my mistake was repeating this strategy (in a concrete chamber at 55 degrees until 3 in the morning) while already suffering the hilarious medical paradox often referred to as the "hot-chills."

Seemed like a good idea at the time. Glistening with sweat while chattering my teeth, I assumed I'd achieve a Dostoyevsky-like enlightenment if, while writing, I vere to soffer.

Whether it actually produced a good essay or not, I don't know, but I did manage to grow a rather splendid beard in the wake of this creative process.

I've been trying to enjoy the flu for its minor returns, though, which include a temporary exoneration from most, if not all, responsibility. And say what you will about the unpleasantness of repeated vomiting: there's really nothing better to sculpt those abs.