I've been sick for nine days now. This sucks. I've got some sort of flu-like booger factory working four shifts in my sinuses, only resting to give my lungs a chance to hack up some black wontons, and my lips to propel them at the things I dislike the most.

The outside of my nose is sore from the endless snot rockets, my lips are dry, and I've watched everything ever televised, and downloaded everything Wilson Pickett ever recorded during this low impact week o' bliss. Anti Piracy advocates, don't worry. I downloaded Wilson Pickett because I won't buy it. Ever. As a matter of fact, I even ripped “Billy, don't be a hero.” I must confess, it's real tough being a jet-setting hipster. But I digress. (Actually, it's more of a pause; I have to part with some mucous, be right back.)

Being sick is a great time to make goals. It's a great time to tell yourself about how you're going to change things once you get better. For instance, once I finished watching the Tough Enough marathon on MTV for the second time, I convinced myself that I could do this kind of training. It looks easy running uphill for seven miles, followed by two hundred squat thrusts, then fifty pushups. “I can do this!” I screamed, well, not exactly a scream; my mouth was full of cheesecake, causing it to be more of a coagulated emission than a battle cry. Then, I coughed, and spat out mucous, cheesecake, and whatever remedy I've been on, giving my TV screen a sick mans money shot.

I could have cleaned it up, but I opted for a nap instead. Sunday TV is boring. So, I popped some of my Sudafed nighttime remedy, and woke up on Thursday, just in time for the new episode of Tough Enough on my smelly green TV.

After a four and a half day rest, I started to feel better. Then I realized it was because I hadn't had a cigarette during that time. Wow. What an opportunity to become a healthy non-smoker. Great idea. I got up to check my email, and saw my trusty, lonely pack of Parliaments sitting on my desk, and grabbed one. I lit up and gave my computer a money shot of its own. My appliances are starting to think I'm quite the stud. Simmer down now, there's only so much to go around. Let me fill up on Cheesecake and Robitussin and we'll talk.

My friends and family are yelling at me to go to the hospital to get some remedy, but I shrug it off. That would be the smart thing to do, and they forget, I'm Shane Kinney, the task blaster. I religiously make simple tasks full blown productions, requiring my own stunt double.

I'm not going to the hospital, the only insurance I have is for my wallet lightening yuk buggy, which is sitting in my driveway, thinking of new ways to cost me money. I'd rather do this the Shane way, and suffer for much longer than necessary at a lower cost. After all, if I did it the right way, I wouldn't have anything to write about.

So yesterday, I actually felt better. I decided that I should do something active. So, I walked to the bar, and drank with my friends. In retrospect, that plan may have been bordering on asinine, but it seemed right at the time. Now I just can't figure out why I'm vomiting on my clock radio. Was it legitimate illness or a result of too much beer? I'll never know, but I'll say that the cold medicine I popped is dancing around with the remaining alcohol in my blood stream, and coupled with the fact that I haven't eaten anything today can only mean one thing… it's noon, and I'm partying. Ooh yeah. Dancing with myself.

Gotta go, I just yacked on my stereo. Was it the fact because of the beer, the illness, or just too much Wilson Picket? I'm determined to find the answer, but the fatigue in my body is the boss of me right now, and it's telling me, “Shaner, don't be a hero.” Damn, I guess I'm just not tough enough.