Starting yesterday morning, I began to present the exact same symptoms that I was presenting this time last week. That's right: reinfection has been achieved. Yippee! Only wait...no. Not yippee. Anti-yippee. This is the dark reflection of yippee, lurking in the tenebrous corners of the universe, waiting to destroy my enjoyment of everything.

I literally sat down with a pen and paper, made a list of everything I encountered during my probable infection period (assuming a two- to three-day incubation, which is roughly average for this sort of virus), and proceeded to check off the things that I encountered during the period where I didn't get sick. Like John Snow on his quest for the Broad Street pump, I was on a quest for a viral reservoir! Only he wasn't, y'know, dying of cholera while he was looking for the thing that caused all that cholera. I am not entirely happy with my needing to catch the virus to know I needed to find it.

The probable culprit? The toothbrush I keep in Kate and GP's bathroom for my Thursday night sleepovers. Kate has thrown it away, and we'll be testing the theory when I go to house-sit for them (starting tomorrow night). So I feel very much like a kick-ass epidemiologist, wiping out threats everywhere that she goes. Except for the part where, oh, yeah, I'm still sick. I had to go to work today, since it's already a short week, and literally nearly passed out at my desk several times. I feel like death warmed over. I look like death warmed over. The Four Horsemen all want my number. Pestilence called me 'a real hottie.'

If this is my last entry, blame the microbes.