So I took Steven L's advice and went out to the pub for a bit instead of staying home in my pj's blogging. And what was the result?

I'm back home now, sitting here in sweat-soaked clothes, shaking like a Chihuahua in an eagle cage, with aching biceps and what feels like two black eyes; the pain is aleviated only slightly by the pharmacopea of chemicals in my system, and I am under the impression that the sweat itself is so toxic that it's bleaching the insides of my clothes.

How did this happen? Will I ever leave the apartment again? Can I possibly get Sauvignon Blanc delivered? Well, it's this way:

As longtime readers of the raincoaster blog know, I have been known to dabble in food consumption from time to time. Yes, I know it's unfashionable, but I like to eat, and not just on the weekends. No indeedy! I eat every damn day, and I don't care who knows it. It's not something I'm ashamed of, it's just something I do, and it's perfectly normal to do it, even several times a day. Indeed, there's hardly a period of time where I'm not eating or haven't just eaten, or am going to eat in a few hours. I even stop blogging to eat. Well, sometimes. Like for soup: soup is hard to keyboard while eating. I hardly ever have soup. Damn soup.

The Irish Heather pub is right next door to the Salty Tongue deli, and the deli, as you might imagine, is full of food. So instead of following Steven's orders to go to the pub and top off the pot of Italian roast with milk and sugar that I had for breakfast with a few pints of Snakebite, I am diverted by the irresistable scent of, you guessed it, food.

I say hi to Erin, who has brought the baby, Orla Roisin, in for the day. I make the same inane remarks that everyone does, seeing a baby they haven't seen in three months: "She's getting so big!" and indeed she is, although why I feel the need to share this information with her mother, who has undoubtably noticed, being one sharp cookie and responsible besides for making sure the young un's got clothes that fit, is beyond the wisdom of the ancients to discover.

It must be the drugs.

Should I back up and explain the drugs? There's caffeine, of course, but who among us does not begin the day with three large mugs of dark roast with sugar and 1%? Eh? Exactly, it's like background radiation; everybody gets the same base exposure, at least in Vancouver they do. This is why God invented the Venti: so people could say "oh, I only have one cup of coffee a day" and still consume enough to get a racehorse barred from a race. There was one unfortunate horse who failed a drug test because the jockey'd given him a Coffee Crisp before the race, which also helps explain how I got through exams at University; coffee and Coffee Crisp. And the adrenaline rush provided by screaming at the eedjits who'd finished and who were playing Pink Floyd really loudly in celebration.

So there was the caffeine. There was also the speed.

Well, I don't think it's technically speed. It's technically "Dayquil" which is like Nyquil, only Day-ish rather than Ny-ish. I'm taking half the recommended dosage, so only one terrier-sized jelly gob per 12 hours. The Dayquil red is so bright and the Nyquil green so green that they look like Mexican jumping beans that an alien might hatch out of any second. Trust me, if you're on Dayquil this metaphor is up there with Donne, okay?

"Alcohol is essential," said Mae West. "A little for you, a lot for your audience." Why don't we all try that now?

Back? Cool.

So the Dayquil has dried up my nose, thank god, and miraculously eliminated my swollen glands; it had reached the point where I had to walk around with my elbows sticking out like a bodybuilder, because my arms wouldn't go down all the way. Having recovered from the self-tanning disaster of earlier, I am now red-and-white tobiano, thanks to the rash.

The fine print that somehow escaped me earlier, or maybe the elves painted it when I went out, cuz I don't remember seeing it there before, informs me that I am currently floating on a high that owes its existence to dextromethorphan hydrobromide, pseudophedrine hydrochloride (what, don't I deserve REAL phedrine hydrochloride???), and acetaminophen, as well as FD&C red #40, FD&C yellow #6, gelatin (oh goody, protein), glycerine, polyethylene glycol (that's either antifreeze or alcohol; either way it's good; I shall not freeze to death if I pass out in a snowbank), povidone, propylene glycol (that's the other one, so I'm all prepped for this passing out in a snowbank thing, too bad I'm not in Edmonton), purified water (cuz we wouldn't want any toxic chemicals in it, eh?) sorbitol (because if it's not sweetened, the Americans won't go near it), and titanium dioxide, for lo, we do not wish our Dayquil to get sunburnt.

I'm wondering which of these causes the shaking and which of them causes the OCD.

So at the deli (we're at the deli, right? Keep up) I ask what kind of soup they have. I don't know why I ask, but I always do. I always order the damn soup anyway, even if it's parsnip, because the soup they make is just the best damn thing around when you've got a cold, no matter what kind it is. It's usually gingery or coriandery or something that you just know God himself orders up when he gets the sniffles. So today all that registers when the nice girl whose name I can't remember helpfully tells me what kind of soup it is, is that the soup is orange. I, unsurprisingly, order it, to go. I take the little paper bag with my soup and bread and head out to the A&N, for by now I'm in a full-blown food attack, and I walk right past the pub.

Even though there is money in my pocket. Yeah, I have trouble believing it, too.

At the A&N I buy white people food, for it is one of the few places around Main & Hastings where you can get such a thing. I grab numerous cans, for when I am sick I don't like to cook, perferring to reheat. When you've been through cancer you get very practical about such things. I also need laundry soap, so I can do, you guessed it, laundry. You're a clever one. I also buy about fifty rolls of tp because it is on sale and it doubles, as we all know, as a hankie, and I feel this flu is settling in for the long run. Now I am presented with the difficulty of hauling this extremely hefty and bulky double-bagged bounty back the six or so blocks home.

Fortunately, it is Mardi Gras and none of the people on the street are particularly hungry, so I get no trouble from them. Mostly it's just the moocow tourists walking three to five abreast that get in my way, and I only have to clip a couple of them with the laundry detergent to get them to move out of the way. Because I am now streaming with sweat and shaking slightly and, let us put it bluntly, not exactly looking my best, they scuttle away without a word.

I attempt to flag down a taxi but am too tired to lift my arms, and lose out to a junkie hooker, who needs to get to her dealer's anyway. An emergency is an emergency, I guess.

The six blocks takes me about twenty minutes to cover, stopping two or three times a block and blowing steam like a stampeding buffalo, albiet one who stampedes at a pace that could be described as, at best, dignified.

By the time I get to my apartment there is no circulation in the fingers of my right hand, and I have to use both hands to turn the key. The Chinese neighbors look at me confusedly; this Gwai Lao isn't usually that kind of trouble, they think.

So that is why I am sitting here in sweat-drenched clothes, shaking like a Chihuahua in an eagle's cage, watching the colours in the room brighten and dull with each beat of my heart, and possessed of the distinct impression that my head is vibrating like a waterballoon after a hearty smack.

Once, I took a Contac C and an extra strength NeoCitran, drove over to my friends' house and fell into a trance looking at just how incredibly green the carpet was. It was twenty-year-old astroturf. No, they didn't let me drive home.

Maybe for experimental purposes I will take a Dayquil tomorrow and then hit the pub. Stay tuned, this could get…vivid.