Perhaps you've noticed that things have been a little bit draggy here at Gawker this week. (By my calculations, there's been a noticeable 35% decrease in general bile-spewing.) Have I been working on an exciting new project for you? Not at all! Getting ready to jump Nick Denton's tacky Gawker Media publishing empire for Jason Calacanis's? Certainly not! (Better the devil you know...) Or having drastic cosmetic surgery as part of a horrifying reality show? No, that's slated for next month. (I'm gonna be the swan! I'll cut those other bitches up!)

Nothing so interesting actually — just a little pneumonia. Fortunately, the week of high fevers has passed, and I went to this person that the rich call "a doctor"? And he gave me these things called "antibiotics"? I hear this is a very exciting new treatment, one not usually available to the freelance writer classes.

How ill was I? I actually phoned in a vote after Tuesday's American Idol. Seriously — things were really touch and go there for a while. I read New York magazine and I didn't cackle once. I read the New Yorker and it put me to sleep (well, that's fairly normal). I had a warm thought about Daily News gossip boy Lloyd Grove once. I even considered watching VH1, that cesspool of the cable box! That was a dark moment.

My smoking intake almost dwindled to less than a pack a day. My poor lungs: I don't know how to love them, as Mary Magdalene once sang in Jesus Christ Super Star. But I'm going to get this magical "prescription" filled right now at the "pharmacy." In three days, my bronchioles will rise anew, all fresh and ready to haterate.