SVEE-DISH.

February 20, 2007

I wrote this one in the middle of a fever dream, hopped up on cold meds, running on zero sleep, and barely clinging to whatever was left of my immune system. It’s one of those delirious, half-caffeinated dispatches from the trenches that probably shouldn’t exist—but somehow had to. I was sick. Really sick. And still dragging myself through shifts like a half-dead extra in a pandemic movie. The humor in this post is barely holding up the weight of how awful I felt, but that’s part of the job sometimes—you show up sick, you cough into your sleeve, and you pray you didn’t just give Sweden a gift-wrapped Denver flu bomb. This piece isn’t profound. It’s unhinged, ridiculous, and honest. And that’s exactly why I kept it.