I no longer feel as if my life will be tragically cut short because of the death plague.  There will be no need for a wailing Italian grandmother to throw herself on my grave while tortured animal sounds emanate from her.  I am still firmly wedged into the couch cushions feeling as if I’ve been beaten with a stick, but I am no longer writing my last thoughts on post-it notes so that after my death, people will know how brilliant and profound I was.  While cheating death is great and all, I am now bored.  The only company I have is my fish, and he’s not much of a talker.  I’d invite someone over, but they’d have to sit on the other side of the door and talk to me through the mail slot.  Maybe this is just the fever talking, but I think that would make for an awkward conversation.  There are many things I could be doing, but I fear that if I attempted to do any of them, I’d make it into the elevator and have to take a nap.  I’ve always enjoyed falling asleep while in cars, but somehow I think the elevator wouldn’t be quite as nice.  The constant stopping and starting and the incessant dinging would get to be a bit much.  Until I’m able to go adventuring again, I guess I’ll have to be content to drink my orange juice and watch tv.  I was in desperate need of a break anyway, so this forced vacation is kind of nice.  And no one can judge me for napping the days away.