Friday, October 29, 2010
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Flu, I Hate You . . .
By Shane Gericke
If Detective Emily Thompson wins the lottery, she'll build herself a new house.
Which will promptly get blown up by a serial killer.
Just like the last two houses she built.
Nothing she can do about it, of course. Because that's how serial killers roll.
And, uh, I think . . .
Ahhhh, who am I kidding? This essay totally stinks, and it's the best I had. My apologies. I don't like to give you twaddle, unless it's funny twaddle, in which case it's A-OK. Which this isn't. Everything I've written this week is sucking like vampires at a blood bank.
Cause I got me the influenza. Plus an ear infection.
Not surprising, really. Crowd 1,200 people into a room, someone's gonna be packing--and passing along, however unintentionally--the flu. I, unfortunately, caught it.
I was nasty sick most of this past week. Spent most of it in bed, sleeping, with so little energy the few hours I was awake, I could barely dredge up the muscle to turn over. Chills, fever, exhaustion, intense aches--"Flu" is a humorous lil' word for a cripplingly big-ass body killer. Kinda like naming an NFL linebacker, "Twinkles."
Fortunately, it's passed with the help of time and meds. A good thing, too--as you read this, I'm flying to Irvine, CA for the annual Men of Mystery book conference. It's tomorrow, with 50 authors and 500 readers who'll spend the day talking about books. Check it out at www.menofmystery.org.
Hope to see you there.
Without Twinkles :-)