Aqua, lung

As a bright and glorious new weekend dawned, I slept. As the sun crept higher and higher into the sky, I slept. As the first shadows of nightfall crept across my bedroom floor, I slept.

I was awake for maybe six or seven hours in total on Saturday, handling consciousness sparingly and in short bursts to allow for the checking of e-mail, or to trudge down a now precarious flight of stairs to get some fresh water.

I was eternally thirsty, and dosing myself with acetaminophen at four to six hour intervals. It felt in many ways like Martin Sheen's private little freakout in his room at the beginning of Apocalypse Now, except this journey wouldn't involve getting on a boat or trying to kill Marlon Brando.

Or so I thought.

Hours raced by. Monk crept in a couple of times to make sure I was still alive, or to invite me out to something I'd invariably turn down. I tossed. I turned. Every time I opened my eyes, the sun was in a totally different position in the sky. By Sunday morning, I felt great. There was a hoarse rattle in my chest as an enormous quantity of thick viscous sludge continues to work its way out of my lungs.

I took an expectorant tonight, but it doesn't seem to be having the great coughy-purgey effect I was hoping. I just keep hydrating and hoping for the best.