Saturday, though it was the longest day of my year, might as well not have happened. It started at one-thirty in the morning with stomach pain that, every two hours after that, led to my lying on the bathroom floor hoping I’d barf, but to no avail. Around eight, I dragged myself to the park thinking that going for a run in sub-freezing temperatures might jostle things enough to make me hurl. That this seemed perfectly logical should have been my first clue I had a fever. Most of the rest of the day, I stayed in bed.
(Addendum: While it was a miserable day all around, I did do some writing while I was lying on the bathroom floor. I think I finally managed to finish the story I’ve been working on revising for months now, but I’m reluctant to go back and re-read what I wrote to find out that it’s more delirious than lucid.)