At death's very door

I may be slightly alive, but I am in no way happy about it.
I have been on my deathbed all week, or on the couch anyway. It's a glorified cold. The indignity of being sidelined by a sneeze is more than I can bear. It's been a long time since I found myself sick enough that I was willing to sit in a chair and whimper. Or complain voraciously to anyone fool enough to approach. Yet, here I am. My nose runs a great deal, considering it never leaves my face. My head aches, my body aches, I cough at the slightest provocation. I'm disgusting.

I've been sleeping and laying about for three days now, so the inactivity is extremely mind-numbing.
This afternoon I succumbed to onerous ennui by turning on that strange blue glow; the Television. Well, nothing so primitive as that! In truth, I dialed up the old Amazon Prime on my trusty Kindle. I sat for hours watching one episode after another, and blowing my nose. From time to time, I arose to wash my hands and spray Lysol.

Sick, I tell you.

 

The TV show I found to watch was quite diverting. Never mind the sex, drugs, and swearing. It's called Mozart in the Jungle. It's a whole classical music thing, so it feels quite erudite. If one is to suffer the various ignominies of common illness, one should at least be allowed the fancies of cerebral entertainment. Don't you agree?

 

If I survive until tomorrow, I'll drag my frail person right back to the computer to report on my health. Won't that be riveting?