I have been a bit too overcontrolled about hygiene for the last three years.
Successfully shielded myself from external germs, totally, apparently.
Something had to get me, though, something was determined to undermine my pride and punish me.
So something has brought me down, and it is not an external germ, it has come from within.
I have Shingles, a virus which originates with Chicken Pox, and lies dormant in the body for years until a weakened immune system lowers the gate and it charges out, inflaming the nerve endings and roaring, "Ha! Got you!"
And to absolutely cap it all, the locality of the blisters and irritation is my left eye. So I have not been able to work, and yet have not been able to rest at home with lots of lovely books, either. (Even this blog post is really taboo, I shouldn't be doing it).
This is the supreme punishment for someone who loves to read. To be stuck at home not feeling well, but not able to sink into the distant worlds of the imagination, either.
Truly, this is retribution.