Plague

I've been out of town for a week, and I really have nothing literary to say other than that I read a book on the plane. 'She Got up off the Couch,' which is the sequel to 'A Girl Named Zippy.' I didn't find this one quite as delightful as Zippy, which oddly enough is one of my favorite memoirs of all time, but Couch certainly kept me entertained, and I was sad when it was over. Three cheers for small town America.

As for the trip itself, it's hard to believe I'm still standing. What started as a few days of a 102+ degree fever before I left (and what I thought would get better quickly) turned into a horrible cold, an unbearably painful sore throat (which I still have, by the way), a few days with no voice (on days when I was supposed to be interviewing potential recruits), and to top it all off, my first ever case of pink eye. It's the most miserable week I can recall, healthwise, in many, many years. And being on the road made it that much worse. I had to resort to a walk-in clinic, for crying out loud. Whatever, we all get sick. This one has just really sucked a lot out of me, and I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in a week and a half. TGIF.

And F to the YI, pink eye is horrific.