At work on Tuesday, I found myself periodically coughing hard.  Typically, if I spend the first half of the day talking too much, which I always do, my throat gets dry and I need to take it easy.  But this cough felt different.  Turns out I won some sort of prize, because starting once I got home that night until this morning, my body has been quitting on me faster than John Kerry (hey, it's politics season).

Having spent all day trying not to cough up a vital organ or shaking until my skeleton shatters, I've had ample time to think through exactly which terrorists are attacking the precious temple that is my body.  I've narrowed it down to two probable causes.  It's either syphilis from high-fiving Giants fans all day Monday, or the Nidavirus, named after my coworker and desk neighbor, who left work early.  The day before I got sick.  With the exact same symptoms.  Now, I'm no scientician, but my money's on the syphilis.

I've spent so much of my life not getting sick that I'm actually having a hard time differentiating symptoms.  Are those shakes, or am I having a seizure?  Is that Nyquil-tongue, or just Wednesday-tongue?  When the voices stop, are they dead or is the morphine just kicking in?  But the lesson has been learned: when finished guzzling sweet cinnamon apple spice tea, get back to guzzling orange juice.  Gallons and gallons of orange juice.