One of the best short stories I've ever read from a writer who wrote it while down with the flu (or quite possibly, just claiming that he had the flu) was Jefty is Five.
I can't remember who wrote it, and is too delirious to google.
I remember reading it in an anthology of the best stories from the science fiction and fantasy magazine.
It was about how one of the narrator's friends, Jefty, who was always five years old.
Everything around him stayed in that era as well. There were radio shows he would get, and they were all updated versions of such classics as The Shadow and lots of other shit.
I don't feel like writing, when I am sick.
I'll get angry. At everyone. And I'd like to smoke.
I'd dig up old grievances and air it. I'll show you exactly where and when you went wrong. And how I was right. How I was always right.
And you fuckers are the ones who're delusional and stupid. And manipulated via your own egos. While I remain right.
Oh well. Who the fuck cares anymore?
I am just going to get through this flu.
As always, where the hell were you?
Fuck off and die.