Most of the time, being a full-time writer is a pretty good gig. You get to pick your own hours. Nobody yells as you for staring thoughtfully at a blank wall for an hour or two. Every now and again, somebody buys you a ticket to Moscow. I put in my years as a cubicle-dweller and I can attest to the superiority of the freelance life.
Except when you're sick. That's when you miss the nine-to-five grind. Most particularly, that's when you miss sick leave.
I have the grunge. I'll be fine in a day or two. But in the meanwhile, I'm sick... and nobody's paying me for it. I'm losing money!
I'll see you on Monday.
Above: The fiction factory is closed for the duration. I'm going to crawl back into bed now.