The 101er

I’ve been in bed for three and a half days. Flu, I figure. Had a mild fever for most of that time. Erratic sleep but constant tiredness. Much like being at a jam-band festival.
Time stops for me when I’m feverish. Can’t write, which is like hell. And my tastes change. All I’ve wanted to watch are old black-and-white like Judge Roy Bean (a 1950s TV series starring goofy Edgar Buchanan, later one of the Hooterville ensemble on Green Acres et al.) and fourth-rate film noir such as Pitfall with Dick Powell. Book wise, it’s cosy mysteries ( thank goodness there was a new Barbara Allan “Trash ‘n’ Treasures” adventure I hadn’t read yet) and John Creasey thrillers.
Today felt like it was the right time to get out of the bedroom for the first extended outing since Saturday. Went to the comics shop, for more dark-lite fare: the various Justice Leagues’ “Trinity War” conflagration. Ordered Thai food which, just to challenge my frail condition,took an hour to prepare. But at least I had an appetite.
Out of the woods now, I trust. Hale and hearty, at least relatively. Can’t wait until I’m in the mood to watch a dumb comedy again.

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