Of course, in YOUR case, you do not have a nine foot tall african to spoon feed you chicken broth with little dumplings. YOU are sitting and wheezing in a crusty bathrobe, wishing for death. Not so our lovely Licketysplit. She bravely endures countless rubdowns with Vicks and drinks tea with garlic and salt.
In spite of the fact that I have been drinking enough to retard a fetus, not sleeping much, and riding my bike around at night in a blizzard in hot pants, I have not been struck down. This kind of madness is its own reward- the city of Boston is gorgeous on a clear wintry night, sailing (ok, skidding) over the Charles River on the MIT bridge with no other traffic.
The postponement of the Bowie show and perilous hangovers are not my only woes. I have lamps in my room that hang too low. I lived with them without incident until someone pointed out that they were too low. Then I started hitting my head on them every time I came into the room.
It has been very cold and just the other day a friend was describing the nirvana of waking up, laying under six blankets and feeling very warm, but knowing that the world outside is treacherous and bitter and that you can’t stay. And it feels so delicious because you can’t hold on to it for more than a few minutes. To me thats the greatest thing in the world.