OK.
You win, vile viral or bacterial infection. You wake me with chest-racking coughing spasms and turn my bones to lead. All day my skin prickles or chills at your whim. My eye sockets throb.
I have succumbed and submitted to the doctor, who prescribed cipro. I have vowed to rest, drink lots of fluids, and perhaps eat raw garlic. Of course I'm not willing to strike anything from my calendar.
Nor am I willing to play your games. That's why I jogged to Walgreen's to pick up my ammo. I'll go to handbell practice tonight. I have laundry to do. Tomorrow I'll go to work; I'll go to dinner with my friend, the one who turned me on to Richard Fariña's Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me. When I sit down to read it tonight I'll fall asleep after a paragraph, I'm sure, so you'll keep me from my reading but the sleep I get will help me vanquish you. You'll keep me from reading Mind in the Making by Ellen Galinsky, but you won't keep me from going to Phoenix on Saturday to hear her speak.
I'm armed with good intentions and antibiotics and the desire to crochet a baby afghan. Just try to win against that.
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