(Untitled)

[willbailey]

I can't breathe. My right gland seems very anxious to meet my left one. My right ear seems pissed off about that. My apartment is mysteriously vacillating between 100 degrees and 20 degrees.

I think I might be dying.

Comments

[andreawyatt]

Will. I can hear you coughing from here. Go home.

(Said with compassion. Really.)

[willbailey]

No, no. I'm okay. And I'm not letting anyone enter my office - to keep the germ spreading to a minimum.

[andreawyatt]

The germ spreading is not so much my concern - remember, my kids are in daycare, which is basically just a festering pool of every germ known to man. It's more that you're going to cough up a lung and die, except nobody will know because you've hermetically sealed yourself in your office.

Do you see how quiet it is around here? It's fine, go home, go to bed. I'd offer to make you chicken soup, but I've been told that it actually makes the illness worse.

[willbailey]

What a pleasant image. Will you at least put a little plaque outside of my office after my body has been discovered?

I think there are very few things that could make me feel worse than I do right now. Anyway, I'm going. I have my laptop and phone if you need anything.

[andreawyatt]

I'll do you one better, we can put a statue out there and everything. Maybe you on a horse?

I don't want to see you tomorrow if you're still feeling like hell. If you stay home and you need anything from the office, just let me know, or call Sarah and someone can email you or drop it off. But you shouldn't need anything.

Also, I tend to believe that popsicles help, so eat those. End mothering.