October 10, 2001
  anthrax

I have this pair of flannel pajamas that I bought at -- okay, so I bought them at Target, and everybody knows only needy people with six kids and pickup trucks buy clothes at Target, but ignore that for the moment -- so anyway, I have a pair of flannel pajamas that I bought from Target. They're pale blue, with little blue stars, and Tweety Bird all rolled up in a blanket wearing pink slippers with Sylvester's head neatly mounted on the ends. Tweety looks very cute. Then, of course, there are the words "Wanna snuggle?" scrawled here and there between Tweeties. The pajamas are two-piece, with an elastic band bottom and pant legs that swallow my feet and then trail after me in this ridiculous little train, and a button-up top with sleeves that do the same thing to my hands. When I wear them, I suddenly turn into a four-year old in Dad's PJs, if a four-year old could ever be 5-foot-2, and if her Dad happaned to wear effeminate Tweety Bird pajamas. In other words, they're too big.

I love these pajamas, and screw the fact they're from Target. I'm wearing them right now, despite the fact that it's 5:40 am on a workday. In a very short while, I'm going to be buried in them.

I have anthrax.

I'm dying.

(sniff).

It's been nice knowing all of you. I mean, more or less it's been nice. It's been nicer to know some of you than others. I just want you all to know that I don't blame any of you for my death. Really. I'm not sure which one of you did it, slipped the anthrax into my food, but that's okay. I forgive you.

(achoo!)

I'm such a baby. I never used to be this bad. Back in the old days, six months ago, I used to laugh in the face of death. I did. If I had a headache, I'd deal with it. If I had a cold, I'd deal with it. I'd go in to work, impress everybody with my courage in the face of overwhelming pain, and get the job done. Now, I wilt like a fragile flower of femininity whenever I experience so much as a twinge. Whatever else I may be, I'm no fragile flower of femininity.

Yesterday, sick of watching me droop at my desk, the Firecracker drove me home in -- a rarity -- absolute silence. She bullied me out of my chair by the means of holding on to one arm and dragging me across the floor; my other coworkers watched with shiny eyes while she literally pushed me towards the door.

"I don't want to go," I whimpered. "Are you driving the evil car? I'm scared of you."

"SHUT UP," yelled the Firecracker, and hauled me another few feet. "I DRIVE YOU HOME NOW. YOU GO HOME AND REST."

"Call me when you get home," called the Indian Mom, unkindly amused. "Just so we know you made it home, um, safely."

Considering I live only two miles away, this was hardly a recommendation for the Firecracker's driving, or her frame of mind.

I got home at 4:45, fell asleep on the sofa in my clothes, and was woken by my roommate when she came home at 6:00. I crawled into my room and fell asleep again. At 11:30, I woke up long enough to take off my socks and wander to the living room to find my glasses.

My roommate detached her head from her cell phone long enough to inform me that the Guy had called.

Okay, then.

The telephone conversation went something like this.

brrrrrring. click.

"....?"

"...."

"....! ....? ......"

"....."

".....?"

"sniff."

"...... .....?"

"achoo."

"....."

".......?"

"....."

"... love you."

"achoo."

click.

I have no idea what we said to each other. I think I was in my happy place. The only reason I'm writing an entry right now is that I'm too exhausted to sleep any more. One-fingered typing. Admire my perseverence. C'mon. Admire it. My head is too big to hold up with just my neck anymore, so my other hand is busy holding it up. In the past two hours, my skull's expanded to the size of Shoreline stadium, and Disney On Ice is carving the shit out of it with figure skates.

Sniff.

1:05 pm.

I'm still in my pajamas.

Tweety is looking a little bit drunk.

I'm hungry, so I'm eating Kettle Corn, the only thing in the apartment that's available for immediate eating. My pantry is in a sorry state. I was going to make soup, but there isn't any left. I was going to make minestrone, but there isn't any tomato. So instead, I'm eating Kettle Corn. I've got enough energy to be ambitious, so I'm starting to make Chinese porridge: rice, chicken stock, and lots of water. Except I don't have any chicken stock, so I'm just making soupy rice with salt and seaweed. Julia Child, read it and weep.

Whatever. It's hard to care. If anybody out there loves me, please send supplies. I'm pretty sure that Kettle Corn is contraindicated for cases of anthrax.