Sick.  Really sick.  Like deathly sick.  In bed, trying to live just . . . a . . . little . . . longer.  The fact that I’m typing right now is amazing.  I have a feeling this week is going to be a TOTAL BUST.  Nothing will get done but the passage of snot and mucous through my nasal cavities.  Let me make this clear — clearer than my congested head . . . I’m not going to write anything else.  And because of that, I think sickness can be equated with procrastination . . .forced procrastination.  Enjoy.