At least it's not staph.

I have caught the crud.
I actually think it may be the most peculiar crud I've ever caught. No sniffles, sneezing, or sore throat. My chest aches like someone has dumped molten lava into my poor, tender little lungs, who were, by the way, just becoming accustomed to not being charred with a pack's worth of nicotene-flavored smoke a day and that was just fine with them thank you very much. I was running a fever which I think broke sometime during my eighteenth hour of sleep today, and my body aches like I just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson, post cannibalism era. This afternoon saw me pacing up and down the aisles at Kroger, whimpering like a little girl any time I actually had to raise my arms above my head. I'm not entirely sure it was worth the trip. My cats, however, were ecstatic to have their supply of crunchy kitty-oriented goodness replenished, and I have spent the entire time since either comatose or happily inverted beneath an open bottle of nyquil, feet kicking in the air. I may actually be able to go to work tomorrow for my whole four and a half hour shift, which would be nice considering that my creditors don't take too kindly to hearing that really I caught the bubonic plague of fiery death ebola laced sludge in the lungs and really I almost caught pneumonia but my immune system took a break from attacking and dissolving squirrels in the back yard to come to my rescue and as soon as I stop feeling like death I'll work so's I can earn money please don't sell my worldly possessions that would be great thanks!
Also, hoodies are become my bestest friends. I spent most of the last forty-eight hours with my hood over my head.
Now, I have a pretty rockin' immune system, but children carry some of the most virulent stuff I've ever come in contact with. Ergo, each time I am around a sick child, I catch the creeping crud. In the ER last Monday, there were no less than twenty sick kiddos.
I still maintain, however, that short-term sickness is God's way of forcing a vacation on you. I admit, one day of sleeping soundly in a fever-induced fog has been nice. Any more than that, though, and you may have to talk me down off a clocktower and pry the AK-47 out of my hands.
Is it a sign of low intelligence that my cat's snoring STILL freaks me out?