I know, it’s still not the rest of the spring training journal…

So shoot me. I have an excuse. I’m sick, as in ill. Cough, cough, cough.

For the past several days I’ve been hocking up grollies the size of Detroit about fifty times a day. In my illness-induced delirium I’ve imagined that there’s a special part of the sewage treatment plant that just collects everyone’s lung butter. Somewhere out in a landfill somewhere there is a mountain of phlegm that rivals Everest.

I told you I was delirious.

I got this from Joe Fracas. Weeks ago he started coughing really horribly during band practice. These were no mere mortal coughs. These were soul coughs. That grollie you hock up isn’t just mucus. It’s got a part of your very essence in it. Then, somewhere along the line Joe started complaining about his eyes bothering him. He said, and I quote, “I think my eye is bleeding.” Well, yesterday morning I woke up to find that the whites of my eyes were now the pinks of my eyes. I think my eyes are bleeding.

This is the point where having read things like “The Coming Plague” or “The Hot Zone” actually works to one’s detriment. Instead of looking into the mirror and saying “Huh, my eyes are bloodshot, how odd.” You look in the mirror and say, “Holy Christ on a cracker, I’ve got Marburg!!!!” Robitussin is no match for Ebola. If I’d been eating cats recently I might suspect that I’d come down with SARS.

All kidding aside, this is nasty stuff. It’s not mere paranoia that leads me to conclude that I have, in fact, come down with a hemoragic fever, because that is in fact what has happened. Neat.

My brother has taken to calling me plague boy. He’s also remarked that he obviously has superior genetic material to mine since he’s apparently, for now, immune to this virus. Perhaps I should go lick all the spoons in his cupboard.

Anyway, I’m woozy and tired. I shall lie down now and prepare myself for the inevitable bleed out. Hanta Virus and I bid you adieu.

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