I just returned from Matt’s house, which is an incubus of viral plague. He got sick after our wild New Year’s Eve at Sharkeez. (It was indeed wild, and not just by my old lady standards. I have war scars to prove it. I’m so cool!) Hearing his agony (”… the world is trying to destroy me … it hurts to breathe … I don’t even want to go online!“), I figured it was my civic girlfriend duty to bring him some soup. So I armed my immune system with an Airborne and went in. We sat quietly and watched TBS and chewed on our wontons. Later on, in a sad, nasly voice, he mustered up the strength to make conversation.

“Wanna make out?” he asked.

“Ew, no.”

“We can put a piece of saran wrap between our mouths.”

Yeah, I think he’s gonna survive. I, on the other hand, am feeling a bit queasy.