Your great big ray of sarcastic sunshine has contracted the rhinovirus. I didn’t know I came into contact with an odd toed and relatively small brained mammal that is native to Africa. I need a noose, or a visit to the Cuckoo’s Nest so Nurse Ratched can suppress me and force a lobotomy. Any good looks I once had, have been exchanged for ghastliness and gagging reflexes. I can’t promise I’ll be less of a miserable mess than I was yesterday. Having this cold screwing with my head and physcomotor area is affecting my pep, vigor, and possibly even my personality. But since humor enhances the immune system, I’m going to give it a shot.
I can’t ever remember being this infected and confined, for this long. I started out the first day with this infirmity building an arsenal of wadded up germaphobic tissues. I blew my nose so hard in fear that I’d blow my brain into Puffs and it would go out with the garbage. Day two, I had no recollection of anything since I slept through it. By day three, I couldn’t breathe. I pondered whether to hook the hose up to my nose and flush out my nasal passages. Out of all my body parts, I felt my forehead was in the best shape since I could do plenty of facial expressions of disgust. My boyfriend was still somehow attracted to me on day four, even with the blisters beneath my nostrils. I had to go to the mailbox incognito. Having not worn a bra for days, I was sure my lover wanted to gather my boobs and hold onto them so they wouldn’t completely droop to the floor.
By day five, I was cursing Kleenex boxes and calling our attorney to draft my last will. I ended up trashing the original version because better decisions are made when you’re self medicating. Anyway, I wasn’t sure how many days I had left. I totally should have informed my msaaseuse on my last visit that I loved him, in case I never see him again. By day six, I was just a distraught and irritated sight standing in front of the mirror asking, “Why me?” I really wanted to use my brain that day. But my head was a cacophony of distorted noises. I was creating some pretty compelling content for the center of disease control. Day seven rolled around I was sure my beau was worried that I’d turn into the Tasmanian devilwoman. It didn’t help that he approached with a dish towel tied around his face while he’s holding a can of disinfectant and he’s telling me that I have cooties. He made me a lovely bowl of chicken broth and smiled rather strangely when he handed it to me. I had never been so scared of soup in my life.
It’s been a week since I’ve had a glass of wine and figured maybe that is what’s really wrong with me. By day eight, I did anything to entertain myself. I found a crossword puzzle to stare at in case my cable stopped working. Yet I have no brainpower to pencil in words. My main squeeze caught me doing some interesting things while I’m couch ridden. To start, I sang the Soud of Mucus song. “Raidrobz od rozez ad Colowado Zpwigs. Bu beig zick iz nod one uv my faborit thigs.” It’s hard to sing when you’re wheezing and you’re brain feels like a busted can of biscuits. I tried unclogging my nasal passages by pushing my tongue against the top of my mouth and pressing a finger between my eyebrows. My mate started laughing and asked, “Have you taken any medicine?” I was grateful to have someone around to administer those phlegm-loosening expectorants as long as they weren’t going to send me into the stratosphere. There wasn’t another soul in sight for buffering my suffering. Theraflu muffins would have been beneficial, or Coricidin cupcakes. But friends and family members want to keep a safe distance away, like as far as Copenhagen. No one is drawn to moans, groans, and a pale and crusty nostriled individual that looks as though she combs corn oil through her hair. I did take enough NyQuil to stun a congregation of oxen. Bill Murray once asked, “If you’re not supposed to abuse cough syrups, then why does NyQuil come with a shot glass?” I had been warned plenty in my past about drinking responsibly and look where it got me.
By day eight, local police had received a report of suspicious behavior on our block. It was just me firing off confusing commentary while trying to unlock the door to someone else’s house. The officers wanted to see my medicine cabinet to see what they were dealing with. Apparently I’m a vile felon and cannot be trusted drinking over-the-counter stuff without supervision. How did I know I was swallowing that gets-you-so-wasted-you-think-you’re-Mick-Jagger medicine? I couldn’t stop chanting, “I cad ged no sadizvaction.” Of course my beau had to trump my singing and belted out, “Wild thing, I think I love you. But I wanna know for sure. Come over here my sickly baby and hold me tight.”
I held him alright. The man ended up catching this microbial menace from his long suffering girlfriend and let me tell you. Pedifiles and serial killers aren’t the only sickos with character defects.