Bleah.

I have the flu. The kind that sucks all the energy out of your body and then tortures you with brain-melting fever and teeth chattering chills at the same time. The kind that makes your hair stand on end. The kind that makes your boss and co-workers plead, "Yes! Please go home sick!" The kind that makes strangers give you a wide berth when you lurch down the street.

I like to call this type of influenza Ebola. You know: the deadly virus wherein all your bodily fluids shot projectile streams from your body's every orifice. And then you die.

I won't die, but it sure does enter the realm of possibility when you spend all day in the bathroom and all night sweating your balls off and shivering.

I blame Bob, who surely blames Charlie. Poor Superfly stands no chance.

Bleah.