Back on my feet

I might have guessed that the price to pay for hardly having been sick in well more than a year would be, eventually, a viral ass-whomping. Woke up Sunday morning thinking I was Sigourney Weaver, not in a good way. Something was in me and it had to come out. This was followed by fever, shakes, sweating, and about forty-eight hours of disturbed sleep. Un-fun.