Well, shit. I’m sick. I think I’ve got a cold.
And for those of you who’ve never had a cold… well, basically, fuck you.
(No, no… I don’t mean that. Sorry, that’s just the phlegm talking. Let me try that again.)
For those of you who’ve never had a cold, let me tell you this — post-nasal drip is a pain in the ass.
(Not literally, of course. If your sinus problem ends up having anything to do with an ass, much less causing it pain, then you’re into kinkier shit than I am. Naked influenza twister, maybe, or whooping cough Jell-o wrestling. It really doesn’t matter; I don’t want to know. Just stop it. Stop snotting on asses. We don’t do that sort of thing.)
Anyway, I’ve got a cold, and it sucks. I can’t breathe, my nose is running, and I sound like James Earl Jones doing a Fat Albert imitation. ‘Hey, hey, hey‘, my snotless ass. I’m an hour and a dinner-I’m-not-really-hungry-for away from snorting a capful of NyQuil and calling it a night.
(That stuff is magical, by the way. Sure, it doesn’t really do anything about the symptoms of a cold — not so far as I can tell, anyhow. I go to bed, hacking and sniffling and coughing up blue Smurfy shit. I get up, and it’s the same thing — the hacks, the sniffles, the Smurf shit. From all the direct evidence I have, there’s no change whatsoever.
Ah, but in the time between sucking down the syrup (not a euphemism… stop it) and opening my sleepy widdle eyes the next day — well, all I do is sleep, and that’s frigging priceless. For all I know, I’m snurfing and gagging and violently horking all night in my sleep. I might as well be taking knockout drops or liquefied sleeping pills, not cold medicine.
And you know what? I really don’t give a damn. If you can get me those eight to ten hours of sweet uninterrupted slumber, I don’t really give a flying heifer’s heinie how you’re doing it. Give me alcohol, or codeine… morphine — I don’t care. Knock me on the damned head if you want. Just get me to sleep and keep me there till morning. That’s all I ask.)
So, that’s my life right now. Uncontrollable sniffling and exhaustion and little globs of unidentifiable green goo. It’s like a dinner party at Keith Richard’s house.
Okay, that doesn’t make any damned sense. Look, I need my meds, okay? I’m sick — cut me some frickin’ slack. It takes a lot of gumption to blog in my condition, dammit! You should be nice to me. If for no other reason than I’ve got a lot of phlegm to throw around right now. You don’t want me to go there. Trust me.
(And I know your IP address, buster — I can find out where you live. You’d best just watch your back until I get that NyQuil down. *snuuuuurrrrfff*)Permalink | 2 Comments