Raise your hand if you feel like caca.

 Oh right, you can't even raise your hand. Nor could you notice that you were putting your shirt on inside-out until it simply was too late. You can't exert yourself beyond ripping open a packet of powdered soup and stirring with one of those excellent two-foot-long Mexican wooden spoons, god bless them, while seated at your kitchen table, head slumped into crook of elbow, wishing to god that Please Please Me, which has come up in your iTunes, would just change itself.

This was bound to happen—you had to get crazy sick at some point, and if it happens while you're living alone in a town that has been paralyzed by flu-fear and emptied of fellow Fulbrighters, well tough. Be thankful that you're sick on a weekend when your primary goal is to finish watching your stack of Pedro Infante movies. Take comfort in the familiar sounds of vendors as they sing up their wares to you and wander down your lane. Tortiiiiiiillas. Tortiiiiiiillas. Fight the urge to open your window and ask them if they also give hugs and take temperatures.

Weirdly though, the evidence of your condition (which we will leave out here) suggests that none of the usual suspects are to blame. This is not swine flu nor the result of a poorly-chosen taco stand. The best explanation you can come up with is your neighbor's frozen watermelon margarita, which you downed way too fast last night while midway through your 2-hour streak of beginner's luck at dice gambling. Worth it?

Worth it.