New Years Day, I’m sitting on the couch with my sweetheart trying to devour a cheeseball on crackers. For some reason, I’m not getting into it very much; I feel kind of sick. Turns out, I *was* sick. Not kind of, quite sick. Fast forward two days of fever, chills, insomnia, nausea, and other forms of bodily frailty and shame, and I am just now starting to be better.

I think I’m actually all better now, it’s just a matter of convincing my abused digestive tract that it is indeed back to normal. I can scarcely bring myself to eat anything, let alone a “meal”. I have only one positive thing to note: I just got out of bed (at 6 in the evening, no less) and looked in the mirror. I said to myself “I look like shit” instead of moaning and complaining about how I *feel* like shit. Isn’t that the first sign that you’re returning to the land of the living? Worrying about your appearance?

My wife the Cactus has been nothing short of spectacular. I could have survived without her help, sure, but I would have been easily 50 times more miserable. She is a saint. Thank you, sweetheart. I love you.