I have reached that precarious place, the edge of sickness, the lip of the abyss where wheezing and pain await. It is, of course, the worst possible time for this to happen: the next three weeks involve several important deadlines, visiting relatives, two out-of-state trips, and a writing project that isn’t writing itself. Not to mention the sun is finally out and I want to be on my bicycle, or by the ocean, or both, whenever possible. I know myself and I know that the next 24 hours will determine my fate; either the early bedtimes and the remedies will work, or I will spend the coming week in a feverish fog, updating the file titled “In the event of my demise.doc.” (It’s mostly a list of who gets which books.) Such morbidity! Probate court? Um, death panels! No no, don’t worry, I have an MD and a paramedic on my speed dial.

The thing is, I knew I was getting sick several days ago, even before the headache set in, because I started experiencing two familiar (if bizarre) symptoms:

Symptom #1: A brain malfunction that replaces a word or phrase with another word or phrase, completely unrelated, also completely nonsensical. The headline “Debate Continues at Town Hall Meetings” became “Debate Continues at Pork Rind Meetings.” An email from an editor asking for a bio became a request for a door. It always takes me a few moments to recognize that I am having this malfunction, and during those moments I am shocked to think that CNN perpetrated such a ridiculous error, or that my editor thinks I can build doors.

Symptom #2: Mentally writing jokes that are not jokes. They feel like jokes, in that they have an intro or a setup, maybe a reference to current events and then some sort of “punch line,” but really they are just meaningless assemblages of words, often with overtones of violence. Recent actual examples: Did you hear the one about the watch fob that shot your mom, because she is so ugly? And: So this dog walks into a bar and says, “Give me a whiskey, make it a double.” Bartender stares at the dog and then shoots himself, because of Socialism. Not funny. Right. But whenever one of these things floats across my consciousness it makes me laugh, because I assume it’s a joke, and then an hour or so later I realize it’s not.

Diagnosis: Yeah. I’m sure I don’t want to know.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make myself a cup of hot vertebrate and fucking Eric Cantor and you can all fucking laundromat and go to bed.