Monday, November 24, 2003

Two days inside, in bed, picking the dead skin off my fingers, the remnants of my previous bout with the mystery rash, and sweating out some kind of new sickness while I stare at the big red smile of the portable heater. Body aches and a sharp cough. The cigarets stare at me longingly from across the room.

I managed to do a couple loads of laundry and mostly clean my room, but anything else was simply too exhausting. Even reading was a chore or it just served to put me back to sleep. Thankfully, Angela came over and made me a pot of soup, brought me some kiwis and mandarin oranges.

I'm hoping to return to work tomorrow. It's a kind of financial castration to take a sick day at this job, whoring English to Japanese people. It's really a sales job, which I thought I would never do, but there you have it. It's not the first time I did something I said I would never do, so I guess I'm used to it. The only problem is that I'm not a salesman by any stretch, which makes me the kind of employee that's good enough to keep his job, but not good enough to go beyond that. This company probably rivals McDonald's for turnover, but then McDonald's isn't exactly unsuccessful.

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