I'm dying. Like, fully dying.

Well, that's what it fucking feels like at any rate. I've not been to work all this week - so that's three days off, and unpaid to boot (being a lowly temp and all).

It all started last week - I felt pretty rotten all week, but put it down to the partying over the birthday weekend. Found it a bit odd that I was still feeling shithouse on Thursday, which was soon explained when I woke up Friday morning with a sore throat. And, frankly, it was all down hill from there.

I thought a chilled weekend doing random chores and only venturing from the house to go shopping and meet some mates at a pub on Sunday would sort me out, but Monday morning I was death warmed up.

Now, I should interject with a backstory here. My brother was sick all last week. He reckons he picked something up at my birthday dinner. So he had to go to the docs and get some antibiotics and generally take it easy all week.

It's at this point that I'll counter and suggest, just maybe, that it was I who picked up an illness from him, but hey, I'm not a doctor.

Another person who shouldn't be parading around as a doctor is, funnily enough, my fucking doctor.

So on Monday, with the full knowledge that my brother had to seek antibiotics for the very same illness that I now have, I rocked up at the local bulk bill and asked to see Dr Doesn't Speak A Word Of English. "Sorry," Nurse Bitch Occa said, "We stopped taking patients hours ago." They have another branch locally, so she called there for me. "They stopped taking patients three hours ago as well!," she laughed, clearly chuffed at the synchronisation of two shithouse practices running low on boat people to write simple prescriptions.

I left the bulk bill, not sure of where I was going, but convinced I should be medicated. So I went home and logged on to YellowPages and called the first medical centre that sprang up. They had an appointment in half an hour which was mine if I wanted it. The catch: they don't bulk bill. $57 to see a dude. Fine, I said, I'm well past the point of giving a fuck.

I rocked round to the centre at the allocated time, and as I was registering a couple of local femi-bogans (it was in Belvedere, after all) were having a whinge about little Mercedes-Corby not being able to see a doctor. "Sorry," said Nurse Middle-Aged Cow, "We're full." At that point I realised I HAD BEATEN THE SYSTEM.

After flicking through a couple of pages of That's Life, I was summoned to operating room five to Dr $57. Friendly dude, quite likeable and all that, get what you pay for, etc. Except for one minor point.

"Well, you've definitely got the flu," he said. "But this is the kind of thing your immune system should be more than capable to deal with. Just go home, take two panadol and rinse with salt water. And take tomorrow off work, too."

I paid $57 to have the side of a Panadol Cold & Flu packet read out to me.

So I've spent the last three days on my arse, coughing til it feels like I may produce a lung. I've been through two boxes of tissues, and watched three movies (Kenny, Hedwing & The Angry Inch and Moulin Rouge). I got excited when I realised, after multiple viewings, that the establishing shot of the Medibank Private ad was shot from my work's building in the city (I recognise the big '45' on the building next door). The furthest I've been is to the milk bar, which was to buy a big packet of M&M's - I decided if I was going to feel shit, then I should eat shit, too. And I managed to get away with not showering until just before bed last night.

With showering out of the question, then you can bet that blogging has absolutely no fucking chance. So apologies for the absence, but hey - LOOK HOW MUCH MATERIAL I FOUND IN MY ILLNESS. I just need to get sick at least once a week and I'll have stuff to write about for years to come. In the meantime, I should resume normal transmission soon.