Martian Death Flu

You know how working out is supposed to boost your immune system, and make you strong and all that smack?

I have a case of the Martian Death Flu.  You know the one, where air molecules  bumping against your skin hurt like crazy and your joints are on fire and you have a hacking cough and a fever that trips up and down teasing you so that you think it’s gone away until you get the shivvering chills again and your head aches and the idea of food is appalling and you feel yourself getting weaker by the hour and…

Yeah, that one.

I don’t get sick often so this is getting on my nerves.  I want to train, but… Well, Rule One.  I’m weak enough I’m not sure I could squat with an empty bar and keep my balance.  So, I wait.

Not only that, I think it would be a bit inconsiderate to go to the gym and pass this along to other people.

But I’m feeling cranky and ill and moody and want a mood lift.

And I have work to complete for a client.  Thank God I’m disciplined about research and outlines.   But writing when your think is broken and you can’t brane?  I know there’s this famous idea of people turning to writing when they weren’t well enough for other work, but I guess I’m a crap writer.   I write best when I’m well.

Oh, and open message to all you macho assholes who go to the gym and train while dripping snot into tissues and horking lung butter into your hands:


It’s really inconsiderate.  Just sayin’.  Use a mask if you’ve just gotta train, please? (You wanna hurt your own body, go for it.  It’s spreading your illness around to other people that’s my concern).  I’m right up the road from a fancy, schmancy research hospital that’d be delighted to give you a mask if you ask for one.  Really.  But you can buy ’em cheap in drug stores, too.  I know they’re dorky lookin’.  But I’d respect it.  Honest.

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