Dear IRS:

For the first time in my whole wage-earning life, I must regretfully inform you that it's just not working out this year. Can I take a mulligan?

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Being a household of one has definite advantages when it comes to things like disagreements about the meaning of "clean" (none) or who gets to eat the last popsicle (me). But it's not all daiquiris and Scrabble in the swinging bachelorette pad.

Because I am sole cook, shopper, dishwasher, laundress, bookkeeper and maid, the housekeeping tends to slip a bit when I'm offline. It's not a huge deal if I vanish for a week's vacation, because while the mailman keeps stuffing bills through the slot and neglected produce is quietly decomposing in the ironically named crisper drawer, at least my clothes and dishes aren't leaping off their shelves and soiling themselves. Dust settles over my furniture, but gobs of toothpaste are not gluing themselves to my sink, and rings are not spontaneously forming in my tub.

A week's vacation is fine. A month's illness is another story.

Seriously, you guys, I have been sick since, like, Valentine's Day -- and I'm not the only one. Everywhere I go, people are sniffling and hacking and blowing their noses as if they had water buffalo lodged in them.

Even people who seem healthy watch me erupt into fits of coughing and say soberly, as I wipe the tears from my eyes, "I had that. Had that for eight weeks. Dog tried to bury me in the yard."

Is this the bird flu we've been hearing so much about? Because I was going to try to dye some eggs, but I don't think my body can accommodate any more germs unless I wear looser clothes.

My doctor couldn't see me -- he wouldn't come out from under his desk, because he's moving to Florida next month and doesn't want to be around too many sick people in the meantime -- but he phoned in a prescription for me. It was for some kind of weapons-grade cough syrup that the pharmacist spoke of with awe when she said they didn't even keep it on hand and they'd have to order it.

I don't know what is in this stuff, but the warning labels take up most of the bottle.

"May cause drowsiness. Use caution when operating heavy machinery.

"Do not use when breast feeding. Consult your physician before taking if you are pregnant.

"May cause dizziness.

"May cause blurred or double vision, ringing in the ears, hair loss, blood loss, hallucinations, limping, schizophrenia, sexual disorientation or waxy buildup.

"Do not exceed recommended dosage.

"Do not expose to natural or artificial light, heat, altitude, vibration or pet dander. Do not look directly at bottle.

"Do not disparage."

I was supposed to take it every four to six hours, but, to be honest, after the first couple of doses I lost track of time. I spent at least a full day on the couch watching, I think, either a "Little House on the Prairie" marathon or "Love's Soft Enduring Infection of Long Tall Sarah." Also "Con Air," which has its own cable network now.

At one point I thought I should gather my 1040 booklets, my W-2s and my calculator and take advantage of all this down time to actually do my taxes, but the phone rang and it was somebody collecting for the Brotherhood of Narcotics Officers of North America, which reminded me it was time for more cough syrup. I think I promised them I would send them some.

After a few days, I decided I should kick the syrup habit because I thought I might be getting better but I wasn't sure. I hadn't coughed in a long, long time. I also hadn't eaten or changed channels.

So I stopped taking the cough syrup, because while operating heavy machinery was out of the question, I had doubts I could even type, which would limit my usefulness at work. You can hide out in meetings only so long -- though I was stoned enough to consider that a viable plan.

Although I didn't sleep quite as well after going through detox, I did find it much easier to read and perform simple motor tasks such as putting on socks.

But the point is, my bureaucratic friends, I was in no condition to confront tax tables and government forms. I was feverish and semi-comatose. I am still looking for my Important Tax Documents under a drift of balled-up tissues. I have nightmares about Nicolas Cage blowing up covered wagons.

Besides, it's not as if I owe you money. You owe me. Don't torture me further: Do the math and send me my check so I can hire someone to disinfect my apartment.

Don't make me sell this cough syrup.