Lessons From the Kissing Booth

So, guess who's got the plague?

I spent all of Sunday feeling yucky and insubstantial and dizzy, but I figured it was just, you know, garlic and hangovers, and both of those are bad for me. But when I woke up this morning the feeling hadn't gone away, and while there was a lot of garlic on Saturday evening I'm surely not that sensitive to the stuff. By the time I made it up the hill to my office this morning I was pale and sweaty (uh, more than usual, even) and faint and shaky. It's the feeling I get when my blood sugar has bottomed out and I'm about to fall over, or when I have to make small talk with people I don't know, or basically any situation where my body doesn't know how to handle what's going on and is all, "abort consciousness!"

My blood is bad, sluggish and sentimental and tending towards mutiny. But this is something new.

Now that I've come home and slept for a couple of hours (discovering, on my return, that I had neglected to lock the front door on my way out this morning, which never happens since I always check it about three times), I've decided to blame the whole thing on alien possession. I also intend to blame this alien for my recent impatientness and malcontent and habits of harassment, my lunatic hair, slant rhymes, and the tragic meeting between Elvis and sequins.

When I woke up this morning it was to find myself saying out loud, "What would Henry Miller do?" I haven't a clue what I was dreaming to make that happen, but I think we can all assume the answer would be, "get drunk and sleep with exotic women." And while I have no intention of doing any of that, it does vaguely fall in line with my general wish lately that my evenings would turn into bourbon and fist fights. So, perhaps worth noting.