The only thing worse than feigning interest at my job is being confined to my humble abode. While sick. I knew I was in for trouble this past weekend when I had to scrap my Sunday night ritual of seafood-topped pasta and wine in favor for split pea soup in preparation for HBO's must-see TV lineup. But instead of kicking back to relax, my throat felt drier than the Sahara and I was having a hard time getting into my groove because I was so damn aggravated with the oncoming discomfort. I'd been down this road before. The first time 3 years ago, again last year for a brief spell. But this was clearly on some next shit. By the time I woke up Monday morning, my tonsils swelled up to the size of golf balls and were covered with pus-filled patches which let me know the seasonal virus was back in full effect. Sufficiently grossed out yet? No? Well, it gets even better... since swallowing was now akin to a hors d'oeuvre platter of nuts and bolts, I turned into a drooling fool all over my house with only In The Kitchen repeats on the Food Network to twist the knife deeper. And speaking of food, today marks day 3 of a forced hunger strike. Mama said there would be days like this, but damn. Seeing the scale go down is the only consolation for feeling miserable.