the impatient patient or "ill"iterations

ah, to write something wise and witty, poetic and poignant, sagacious and sarcastic. but, lo, the brain cells and body have been borrowed by a voraciously vengeful virus for well over a fortnight, and i fear any attempt at phonetic fowl play would fringe on something frightfully freakish or freakishly phantastical, and the foundation for fine fellows of philology from the franciscan order found in the far off land of pfluggerville, to which i owe my honorary degree in experimental philology (or was that moldova?), would most likely find a fast way to finish this phlegmatic female. shall i fly first class to philadelphia to find a physician fond of deciphering fickly fiendish flus before the FFFph of FOpf finalizes my demise? but no. my melancholic malaise must manifest itself miraculously and magically benign before any flights of fancy misguide my fanatic feet. mono is maliciously and multifacitly unfair firstly because it was not kanoodled by a kiss and finally because i find i can no longer find fascinating phrases to fit my fiddle.