I seem to have contracted a virus in my nasal cavities.
I can't imagine the source, what with my religious use of Germ-X and avoidance of wheezy people. The mystery deepens, because it began late Sunday afternoon. From the time I arrived home on Friday evening, I did not venture from my dwelling until noon Sunday. Not even for a 44 oz. Diet Coke from the gas-station-chicken establishment. I went Diet Cokeless until Saturday evening, when I popped open a can to accompany some microwave popcorn while I watched the original Planet of the Apes with The Pony. It was one of his birthday gifts.
That means that I was not exposed to a school or community virus during the incubation period. My outing to Walmart at noon on Sunday was too close in time to the development of symptoms. Which included a bit of unwanted emission from the end opposite my Diet Cokehole, and a slight headache.
Typhoid Genius denies responsibility, though he awoke with a headache Saturday morning. A headache that was not too severe to eagerly accept my offer of a lone, pan-sized pancake from a box of Bisquick mix. He soaked it in syrup, consumed two-thirds, pronounced it delicious, and offered me a taste. Val is no fool. I opened the drawer for my own clean fork before taking a bite. Perhaps the sickness settled in the syrup.
Typhoid Hick denies responsibility, though I heard him hacking up half a lung on Saturday morning. We share a sleeping area, you know, and he straps on that breather that sprays his exhalations over my side of the bed like a fire boat spraying New York Harbor on the Fourth of July. In addition, he had a touch of the tail-end of the illness around 3:00 a.m. Sunday. I know, because the atomic-bomb-force winds of carbon dioxide stopped ruffling my hair momentarily as he made his exit.
This must be some Stephen King's Stand-like superbug that has infected me despite my best efforts to remain virus-free.
I call shenanigans!