Birthday: Not So Great

Well, today was my birthday; I'm 22 now, and I've been sick since sometime last week. I was originally planning on setting up some sort of dinner thing for last Friday but somehow I became completely incapable of sending e-mail to the people I wanted to send e-mail to, which turned out to be for the best because I was getting too sick by Friday evening to have done anything with anyone. I spent the weekend running a moderate fever and lying in bed. The Liz came over and force fed me water and Tylenol while we watched movies and TV shows on my computer. In the end, I spent most of my birthday in bed, watching the BBC show Coupling, dehydrated and with poor body temperature control.

Whatever, I'm 22 now and I've got a bottle full of penicillin, so hopefully I'll be ok in a little while.


I like how you describe it as me sort of casually coming over instead of spending all weekend arguing with your grumpy, sweaty, sometimes delirious self because you refuse to hydrate yourself. I get no respect, I tells ya.

Happy Birthday!

I wish I had known, I would have sent you some cardboard...or something.

Feel better.

Sincerely, (It's Ellen, I lied)

Happy anniversary of the first day you were covered in blood and other more horrible fluids. It will not be the last! Muaha!

Happy Birthday, George! What're you up to next year?