Sick, sick, sick, sick. Hacking, sneezing, coughing, head aching, nose running, etc. But as usual I refuse to go to the doctor. I’m convinced when all these super-flus and uber-bugs the media reports on come to fruition I’ll be one of the few that the antibiotics work on because I shun them generally. Or maybe that is yet another creative excuse I’ve come up with for living with this torture instead of, ya’ know, getting a fix. (I also delude myself into thinking all this coughing will give me Gwen Stefani abs. My imagination knows no bounds.)

However. That 112 year old woman all over the news here in LA hasn’t seen a doctor since the 1940s – what’s that tell you? Huh!! She really didn’t look to happy to be 112 though.

Saturday morning I was sitting on the sofa – something I’ve been doing WAY TOO FREAKIN’ MUCH OF – and there was a “little earthquake.” But since our apartment has a crack down the middle of it, really honestly it damn near split in half after Northridge, the 2.7 felt like a 5.7. True sign you’ve lived in CA all your life is when the whole house is shaking, windows rattling, glasses falling off the TV tray…and you just shrug your shoulders and turn up the volume on the TV.

I’ve spent the last 4 days pretty damn much by myself while everyone who isn’t sick parties. It sucks. And work today wasn’t exactly welcoming. I couldn’t log onto the network as I’d been disconnected. Why? Don’t know. Then I had about 50 emails and, well, only 3 voice mails. I was missed, but only in writing.

I’m not going to MNF either. I don’t even know who is playing. I’m going to make some chili, curl back up on the sofa, and hack my fool head off.