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12-05-01 - 9:47 p.m. I feel like such a pile of shit right now that I'm thinking about just dying in my sleep. Which I know won't happen because the world is cruel. I took my temperature today after work. 102.6. That's high, but I've had higher. I'll take it easy tomorrow. (That's a lie.) My head, lungs, throat, and stomach all hurt. Pneumonia messed up my immune system so its best friend Marburg could come play. My under-the-neck lymph nodes are swollen and sore and Bryan accidentally bought the wrong kind of orange juice for me. I think I'll send him with Justin back to Justin's house so I can again quarantine myself. I don't want them getting sick, too. Leif brought me some NyQuil and leftover chicken fried rice from his dinner with his friend. I tried to eat some of the food, but ended up violently rejecting it over the rim of the white Kohler bowl. It was a nice gesture, though. He tried to finger-comb my hair, but I stopped him because it hurt. I ache all over and anyone or anything touching me anywhere is excruciating. In The Hot Zone, which I have read about 90 times, I learned that ebola patients usually die in nine days. I haven't crashed and bled out, nor have I begun to vomit up my internal organs. They might have turned to mush, though. It's hard to tell. Soon I'll be just like Charles Monet, lying dead and gushing on a gurney while the airborne virus searches for a new host. Now my fever is at 102.2, so that's a good sign, at least. I find that, when I'm sick, whining becomes my new language. "Bryan, where's the echinacea?" becomes "Bryyaaaaaaaaan, where's the echinaaaceaaaaaaa?!" I finished War & Peace today. Terrible, terrible book. Not exactly what I should have been doing on my breaks at work. And now it's time for bed.
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