…is what I’d like to be doing right now. Having been thoroughly gored by a stampeding rhinovirus, my most cherished desire is to curl up in a fetal position for the rest of the week. Or the month — it is January, after all, which I could do without. I figure I’ll either recover or I’ll die, and right now, either works for me — provided I don’t have to move.

Of course, either one is also a pipe dream; come tomorrow, I’ll be at my desk, churning out words by the thousands. Because I have deadlines and I don’t want to get fired. My work doesn’t get distributed to our loyal subscribers because it’s good and ready (although I like to believe that it’s both, that’s not the point), it gets distributed to our loyal subscribers because IT’S F*CKING MONDAY MORNING AND F*CKING MONDAY MORNING IS THE SET-IN-STONE DEADLINE WHEN THE WHOLE SHEBANG IS LOOSED UPON AN UNSUSPECTING READERSHIP. Or else (and I have this on reasonably good authority), the world ends.

Which, though occasionally stressful, is probably ideal for a neurotic perfectionist like myself. Week after week of unceasing digital content creation is good for me, I think, because I simply don’t have the luxury of being precious about my work or beating myself up about it (too much) — I just do the best I can, down another cup of caffeine, and clamber back on the merry-go-round (in my case, the dodgy, frothy-mouthed horse near the carousel hub that looks like it’s got rabies or Potomac fever or something) for another spin.

And with that in mind, I guess I should take some Travel Tic-Tacs* and go to bed.

*It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that my father’s infamous “Travel Tic-Tacs” were actually Benadryl capsules, which he’d use to sedate us during long car rides. It’s still my sleep-aid of choice: just take the little pink or blue or clear pill and — voila, 10 hours later — wake up, a bit groggy and disoriented, on the outskirts of Uniontown, PA.

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