It is, perhaps, not the best idea, when home sick in bed for a week, to use that time to catch up on the first season of "House."
It seemed like a good idea at the time. There we were, my wife and I, both laid up with hacking coughs and fevers, enjoying the irascible Dr. Gregory House as he solved all problems with keen observational prowess and inexhaustibly acerbic wit. Not that we put it that way, of course. Mostly we said things like, "Funny. (coughcoughhackcoughhack) Please kill me."
By the third day, when I went to a doctor, I knew full well what to expect. He would limp in, grumbling and bleary-eyed, and find some way to offend and utterly ridicule me while complaining about clinic duty. But then he'd cure me by diagnosing some obscure Malaysian muscle disorder before he even put his cane down. Let him mock my weight, hairline, or fidelity. I was ready.
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I forgot the part where we had to do something tricky to continue our unconventional treatment despite the administration, but as we didn't have an administration handy the opportunity never really presented itself.
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CT and were just talking about the altered state of consciousness that is being ill. Your mind just goes and goes, but you'd be better off it didn't. Because things that make perfect sense to a person with a fever of 101.2 F do not make sense.
That was hilarious.
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I'll have you know that all of that made perfect sense to me.
I do remember, on Sunday when my son was feverish -- he bounced right back in two days, the little grumble grumble -- there was a half hour when he was just sitting on the couch watching the menu replay over and over on a Futurama DVD. I couldn't understand how someone could do that, until Tuesday when I realized I had been lying on my bed staring at my bookshelf for over 20 minutes.
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