This is a good one. I call in sick this morning becuz I feel like I’m on death’s door. I sleep till 10:30, get dressed, eat lunch with the girls and Jen and Mom. After lunch I check in via IM with work. They are freaking out becuz the 4pm “We really are good designers, please work with us” meeting is still scheduled to take place and my boss is at home with some sort of emergency. My art director is feeling nervous as all hell and my #1 Project Manager who has volunteered to meet with this client is getting antsy too. So, I decide to go in. I’ve taken my Ibuprofen, my neck feels a tad better and I can swallow without feeling like I’m gagging on a lead pipe.

As I pull into the garage, my cell rings. It’s trapped in my jeans pocket, so I miss the call. Walk in the door and they say, “the client just called to beg off.”

“…”

Tonsillitis! My right tonsil is swollen to the middle of my throat. I can see my lymph nodes bulging out of my neck. I called in sick even though we are supposed to have a somewhat big deal meeting with a potential client this afternoon. I may go in for it, I’m waiting to hear from my boss.

Throat’s been sore since Sunday. It was sore and making my ear throat yesterday too. I just couldn’t hack it today. How fortuitous that I’m scheduled for a check up tomorrow morning anyway!

I tried gargling and drinking cider vinegar. It is a truly medieval treatment. (”It’ll put hair on yer chest, boy!”)

All for naught.

Huffy Henry hid the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point,—a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry’s side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don’t see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be.
Once in a sycamore I was glad
all at the top, and I sang.
Hard on the land wears the strong sea
and empty grows every bed.

John Berryman

Trek Mileage for the year: 685.

Swobo Mileage for the year: 32.

If I can clear 15 tomorrow and 18 on Wednesday, I will only be 50 miles behind schedule. April has been crappy, what with allergy explosion that laid me low for too long and now I have a slightly sore throat.

Fuck it up! That’s my favorite part of “Gun” by Soundgarden.

And, having read a couple pages of Ecce Homo, I now feel no need for coherence or flow and will end my post with that nonsequitur. Take that!