We had something like 30 people over for Thanksgiving dinner, I'm coming down with something (didn't know what back then but it looks like the flu and feels like black death), and in the middle of cutting up potatoes, I managed to slice my finger from knuckle to fingertip. Game over. I'm screaming, "Jesus God that's a lot of blood!" while standing over the kitchen sink and scare the shit out of Jim. He performs first aid and the rest of the dinner went by in a blur. Then someone picks up the microphone and before I know it, it's karaoke time. Am I supposed to be drinking alcohol when I have an open wound? Never mind, Walk On By is on and I'm grabbing the mike from our 2-year-old flower girl. The score on the monitor afterwards tells me "You need more effort." Like I need a karaoke machine to tell me that.
The next few days are, again, a blur. Why? Because I don't care what they say on the package, it is not a non-drowsy formula. I've got deadlines looming over my phlegm-clogged head and I can barely hold it up to look at the mess I've made of my screenplay. Development Executive calls me every day from Boston to see how it's coming along and damn she's good - I can feel her trying to will me into completing the damn thing and emailing her pages so she can read it on the plane ride back home. "This week is crucial," she declared ominously. But her voodoo isn't that strong. She probably read the in-flight magazine instead, cursing me the entire way.
Somehow the refrigerator full of leftovers from Thursday night has been cleared. Somewhat. We still have pie. It doesn't taste as good, eaten through the residue of cherry-flavored expectorant/cough syrup. Everyone, please send good ju-ju my way, I need it.