Isn't It Ironic? (I think)

I always forget if I'm using the word ironic right. Isn't it sad that an Alanis Morisette song from a decade ago can still fuck me up? And, I actually care about grammar. Sort of.

Anyway, not that any of you bastards would, but don't worry about what I'm about to say. I've felt pretty sick all week, and really, the week before it. I've managed to take pretty good care of myself (most days) but I can't quite get better. My symptoms are everything from a stomach ache to muscle cramps to sneezing to snuffy nose to nausea to head aches to dizziness to insomnia. My body's viruses or bacterium (is that right?) just can't seem to decide where they want to strike. I haven't quite been sick enough to stay home so I've been sucking it up and going to work. Since I had a doctor's appointment on Monday, I've even been staying late every night.

But, here's the irony, instead of performing at half-capacity, I've been hitting the ground running. I have already done so many stories for the week. I've been interviewing people like crazy. I've got more stories to do. I've still been managing to keep up on world events, etc. by reading the wire and even having some time to check out other papers. And in between, I've even managed to carry on conversations with most of my co-workers, just bullshitting. Why is it that I can feel so crappy but do so much work? Is that maybe why I'm staying sick, because I'm pushing myself?

Here's the caveat (my new favorite word), though, I can't really say that the stories I've done are award winners. There's nothing particularly wonderful about the stories. Although in one I did get to lead with something about airsick bags, so that's fun.

Oh, and this whole keeping busy thing isn't just a work thing. I've been reading comics, magazines, political Web sites and I started a novel. Then, I've watched a couple of movies, managed to catch 24 this week and watch a bunch of episodes of Carnivale on DVD. I also sleep, eat and shower daily, so there's nothing I'm forgetting to do.

Oh, and I'm not on any drugs. And since I've been sick, I haven't even had the wine or beer I'd usually have after work.

How's that for strange?

Speaking of strange (goddamnit!), I had a totally fucked up dream last night, which I will now relay to you, the readers of my blog:

It doesn't sound that strange now, but at 4:30 a.m. I definitely had to turn on the light for a little bit before I could go back to sleep soundly. Anyway, in my dream, I wasn't me. I was a little slow kid (not the comedy troupe, but like autistic or mentally retarded), I'd guess I was about an eight-year-old boy. And, this older lady was at my house, and she was something like a detective, but she wasn't really. She was maybe a lawyer or something. And she was asking me questions, while we were looking for my mom. She told me that my mom was helping her on a case, but I didn't really believe that the lady was there to help. Anyway, we kept finding little clues around but we couldn't find my mom. I could tell the lady was starting to worry but I didn't know why and then as we found more and more things, like drawers left open and computer files that were open and notes about things my mom was involved in, I realized that my mom had done something wrong and killed herself and every step after that I was afraid I was going to stumble upon a body but we couldn't find one. And then I woke up and was so freaked out about finding a lady who had killed herself and couldn't get back to sleep. Weird, eh?

Anyway, I'm going to go read some more garbage before going to bed.