I'm an evil Pop-Tart

I'm still sick.

And that leaves me feeling evil.

I'm stuffed up, with a raspy throat, and I've had a headache pretty much non-stop since Tuesday. I think it's one of those sinus headaches people used to whine about on TV ads when I was a kid and had no idea what they were talking about. They would press on the areas around their noses and moan about the pain! and pressure!

Unfortunately, I think I have figured out what they were talking about.

It wouldn't be so bad, except I refuse to take any cold medicine whatsoever. Cold medicine makes me almost as weird as Demoral makes me. And the one time I was given Demoral, I became so weird that I've been entertaining people at parties for over 10 years with the hilarious descriptions of the way I reacted.

(In better hands, this story would have me dining out free for life, except nobody gives dinner parties any more. It's tough out there for us dinner party raconteurs. Even Oscar Wilde would starve.)

Now, cold medicine doesn't make me that weird--or funny--but it makes me weird enough. And I don't want to find myself alphabetizing the spice rack at 2:00 in the morning. So ixnay on the eudoephedrine-psay.

Being sick is actually OK when I'm home alone, and it sure helps with the paperwork. I mean, you wouldn't believe the bills I've paid and the appointments I've set up for snow plow services, fire wood deliveries, and similar exciting aspects of owning a house in the frozen north.

But three days of non-stop nose-blowing and sounding like a flock of geese flying south (HONK! HONK!) have palled.

And so, I'm evil.

And so, I've accepted I'm an Evil Pop-Tart as my renter. This is kind of like PostSecret, except you don't have to mess around with stamps and shit. You can just confess your evil deeds on line. And the confessions are pretty funny. So check it out.

And then try to guess which one is mine.