I've been terribly sick. It's just a cold but I've inherited my father's ability to be completely knocked off my feet by a sniffle. It's why I can walk around with other medical issues that require immediate attention without realising, such as a dislocated rib. Because nothing is as bad as a cold.
I've just regained the ability to sit up and type, but not enough to think straight (this post is only coherent because I'm taking my sweet time) so, naturally, nothing's been done word-wise while I've been knocked out.
Ogden Nash probably had the same way with colds, though I suspect he didn't get them quite as roughly as half my family does. Here's a link to his wonderfully lyrical poem on colds (in the form of a preview):
Go hang yourself, you old M.D,!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
In not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
And here's a link to everyone else in ROW:
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I could hug you already!