I’m exhausted today – and sick to boot (some kind of upper-respiratory munge, probably a close cousin of con-crud and most likely the result of riding on scenic railroads and visiting mysterious hills while surrounded by sniffling, snotty-nosed tykes their parents didn’t have sense enough to keep quarantined).
My mind, as they say, is…. What do they say? I can’t remember.
Well anyway. Thursday, Readercon started with a bang and continues through tomorrow. I was hoping to make a day trip down there for the annual Fictionmags crew photo and touch hands with a few colleagues, but in my current physical state it would be hypocritical of me to expose myself in public when I believe that anyone with a sniffle should shutter themselves in an antiseptic closet until they’re antiseptic. That, or burnt down on the street with a flamethrower wielded by bio-suited CDC soldiers. Or nuked from orbit. It’s the only way.
Unfortunately, neither Ripley nor Corporal Hicks are handy right now, so it’s off to the cold sleep bed for me. If I’m lucky, the ship will make it to the regular shipping lanes and someone will pick up on the distress signal.
(Sometime in the future maybe I’ll rant about the fact that corporations are so stingy with their sick day allowances that they actually lose more productivity by insisting that contagious workers still show up for work.)