It has been a couple of days of feverish dreams, without the fever, achy bones and sniffles. And at the heart of it, the realization that I haven't left some things behind very far.

I have always had trouble calling in sick. Basically because as a child I faked it a lot. In retrospect these were mental health days. I hated school. Absolutely loathed it. I loved learning. But hated my classmates. They were horrible little beasts. And all I wanted to do was escape. It was so much easier to convince my mother that I was feeling sick and avoid the whole thing. But I knew that I shouldn't be home. That I should be in school. Enduring them.

To this day, it is hard to call in. Mainly because even if I feel horrible (like yesterday), I still hesitate. I feel guilty for the time spend not working. I feel guilty for the time spent at home. I feel like I am goofing off, even though it feels necessary at the same time. And I certainly don't hate my co-workers. I gave up on keeping those kinds of jobs years ago, when I realized that life was too bloody short to endure that kind of self-inflicted misery. (In your face Financial Aid Department at major PAC 10 school- you fuckers).

Frailty isn't my strong suit. But there you have it. Gotta just give in. And not feel integral to the machine for a day. Because in the end, I would feel worse infecting others with this one. Oh, and the cats want me to return to bed. They love the large warm thing that just lays there. It's better than the bed alone.