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Dragon*plague
Sep. 4th, 2002 09:46 pmThe con went much better than I had imagined (though as some know, I imagined something only slightly less annoying than all day watching sports and god TV). I think we came close to making the table money back, if not a little bit more, and we definitely got the word out about Stillwaters Journal and its parent, Marietta Publishing. There was some drama, a lot of very pleasant company, The Best Panel Ever that I slept through (though just knowing it happened makes me smile), and that which will not be mentioned here, out of deference to the wishes of the one with whom it is concerned.
However, Day 4 of D*con was the beginning of what I have come to call Dragon*plague. While in the art show, I realized I was freakishly cold. That should have been warning sign number one, particularly as the tiny one was feeling warm (which is rare). But oh, no; I decided to be stupidly stoic (as I am sometimes wont to do), until such point that there was no denying the creeping illness. So, after much sleep Monday, and on Tuesday, I assumed I was through the worst of it, and stupidly went out with friends (which I don't regret, just the effects such an action had on me). Today, I awoke by doing my best to force one of my lungs out of my body by way of my mouth. When asked what was wrong, I could only croak, with every other syllable making it out as sound. The official diagnosis was "can't really talk, and it hurts to try".
So my long weekend got longer by a day. I might well need to extend it further, but it's become apparent that I'm expected to be at work tomorrow bright and early by my enlightened bosses. I may go in, but I may not stay long. As if I needed further motivation to begin job searching in earnest.
However, Day 4 of D*con was the beginning of what I have come to call Dragon*plague. While in the art show, I realized I was freakishly cold. That should have been warning sign number one, particularly as the tiny one was feeling warm (which is rare). But oh, no; I decided to be stupidly stoic (as I am sometimes wont to do), until such point that there was no denying the creeping illness. So, after much sleep Monday, and on Tuesday, I assumed I was through the worst of it, and stupidly went out with friends (which I don't regret, just the effects such an action had on me). Today, I awoke by doing my best to force one of my lungs out of my body by way of my mouth. When asked what was wrong, I could only croak, with every other syllable making it out as sound. The official diagnosis was "can't really talk, and it hurts to try".
So my long weekend got longer by a day. I might well need to extend it further, but it's become apparent that I'm expected to be at work tomorrow bright and early by my enlightened bosses. I may go in, but I may not stay long. As if I needed further motivation to begin job searching in earnest.
