I fell three feet and into a puddle of grape-flavored Juicy Juice. Not too much juice, it was probably just from one carton. But this was no ordinary puddle; there was something different about it. I knew that because it told me. “Hey you! I’m no ordinary puddle!” it said.

I do not have the H1N1 Virus… I think. It all started on Thursday night over a steak and wine dinner with some close friends. A barely-there cough emerged that evening and I did my best to ignore it. But it got worse overnight and come the next day I was like something out of a George Romero movie — my skeleton ached. My brain felt like it was melting. My five senses were blurred in a confusing haze of total homeostatic failure.

Let’s put aside the grammatical heartbreak of text messaging (or, txt msng, if you prefer). English, that great weird bargain bin of romance languages, Teutonic asides, and Latin root verbs, is starting to slide into obscurity. Don’t worry—this is not a disguised ode to William Safire’s “On Language.” This is more about the fact that this whole alphabet thing—the 26 separate letters representing vowel and consonant sounds—is starting to vanish into obscurity, to be replaced by a much more compact and efficient written language system, a la the kanji utilized in Chinese.

Whenever I find myself in a conversational lull–say, in an elevator, at a distant cousin’s wedding, or perhaps even admist the strum und drang of my chosen work environment–I bring up Lou Reed. He never fails me. People start finger popping, mumbling about walking on wild sides, or alternatively searching for a vein in their arm to puncture. The astute ones will make Laurie Anderson references, and others will try to pick apart Reed’s greater cultural impact. Sure, they’ll say, the Velvet Underground has attained deification, and rightfully so. But what about Reed’s solo work? Is “Sex With Your Parents (Motherfucker) Part II” really Guggenheim material?

The alarm blares talk-radio.You fumble and turn it off , your blurry eyes adjust and see red digits floating in darkness… 3:45. No amount of money seems worth this suffering, but you dutifully dump coffee down your throat and shower and dress. Sunset Blvd. rolls out before you, empty and peaceful.