It's rough being at death's door. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But I was sick, and am still recoving (hence the entry's title) from a brutal cold. The Illness took me last week. I thought I could handle it--a sore throat isn't anything to whine about. So, being the horsewoman that I am, I took Dante hunting on Saturday. My throat was still sore and my voice was awful, but it wasn't anything to fret about. Then on Sunday I was consumed by the monster, devoured, spit out and left to die. The Illness sucked all the energy out of me and replaced it with a runny nose, a mysterious mucous that can only be described as lovely, and a blistering sore throat. It was as though someone not very nice had scraped my throat with sandpaper and barbed wire. I carried a full roll of toilet paper with me as if it were a cantine of crystal clear water and I a traveler through the Sahara. My apartment got messier and messier, and I more tired and sick.

To pass the time, I watched the entire fourth season of Friends, The Tailor of Panama (not so good. Has Peirce Brosnan been in a movie that wasn't tacky?), Unbreakable, Spy Game and much much more. Oh sure, I would've loved to have written more of my book or composed some art, but my mind was so befuddled and cloudy with misery and self-pity, that no creative juices flowed.

So, here I sit, one week plus or minus a few days (but who's counting) later. Recovering finally.