So, I’ve been sick now for the past 5 or so days. It wasn’t so bad the first few days, but I reached a point where I felt absolutely miserable by Sunday afternoon. Since then, I’ve just been hoping to just get back to miserable. How bad is it? Well, here is a top-10 list of some of the worst symptoms:
- There is a very mean small man in the back of my throat with a machete. He is hacking it to pieces in there. I keep begging him to stop, but he ignores me.
- I’m not sure how they’re doing this, but through some sort of invisible reverse air pressure device, I am being forced to cough out more oxygen than I can physically take in. Everyone around me denies the existence of this device, but how else could you cough out more air than you breath in?
- Speaking of coughing out more air than you take it, every now and then, someone turns off all the lights, leaving me in the dark for a couple of seconds – even in the middle of the day. Actually, that’s usually just me closing my eyes. I close my eyes sometimes because it seems like the right thing to do when you’re about to pass out. No one has credited me with any style points for this, though, so I’m not sure where else to go with it. I should probably stop trying this one while driving.
- I think someone in there is trying to break a rib or two or twelve.
- In yet another amazing feat of engineering, those little guys attacking me from inside have found a way to make my throat feel like it is freezing while also feeling like it is on fire. These guys are sneaky mean.
- My skin, usually a pale, almost-translucent pasty color, looks like someone rubbed spaghetti sauce all over my face, neck, and head. Incidentally, my new superhero name is “The Red Splotch.”
- Another of those evil little hidden men has somehow managed to drive some sort of wedge into my shoulder blades. He is merciless.
- I thought I felt a bit like the walking dead, but then I realized walking hurt too much. So, now, I guess I feel mostly like the sitting dead. Or, more accurately, like the desperately-trying-to-avoid-a-cough dead. I don’t know why the dead should be so afraid of a cough, so I can’t really explain that to you. But we are. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
- Which reminds me: why are the dead called the undead in horror movies. I think maybe it was a translation error from Spanish. “Es una dead.” I dunno. Could be. I never was very good at Spanish.
- I’m getting quite proficient at making cocktails of all the different meds I’m trying. I figured I might as well just try them all at the same time and let the chips fall where they may. I don’t exactly remember what happened, but I was happy to see my phone didn’t contain video evidence of a series of misadventures. I think I just coughed more and blacked out for a bit. At least, that’s my story.
- Sleeping has become very passé. Only losers and healthy people sleep. Those among us who aspire to be the sitting dead just sit there, cough a lot, and – on rare occasion – cry a little. Oh, and we whimper when we think no one can hear us. Usually, they’re already deaf from the explosive coughing going on, anyway, so they’re not likely to hear much of anything.
- I have waking fantasies (not dreams, of course, because dreams only happen if you actually get to sleep) of not sounding like Bill the Cat from Bloom County. Ack! Thbbft!
- Maybe it’s not a machete. It sounds more like a chainsaw got stuck in my throat. I wonder what happens when it runs out of power. I bet that little jerk in there will just start using a rusty hacksaw or something. He’s evil, I tell you!
- I forgot how to count. This is starting to feel a little too short to be a top-10 list.
- My wife rejoiced that I couldn’t talk; not that she would have been able to hear me, what with the explosive coughing making her deaf and all. But she didn’t have to pretend to listen to me since talking felt about as good as trying to guzzle down a pint of molten lava. Yummy.
- Instead of the undead, maybe I’m more like the only-mostly-dead. You know, like Wesley, aka The Dread Pirate Roberts. Where’s Miracle Max when you need him? There are several hints in that movie. The albino could barely talk when he first tried to welcome Wesley to the Pit of Despair. The Six-Fingered Man promised that Wesley would suffer more than any other man ever had. That’s it! Count Rugen is behind all this; I should have known!
- Most food tastes like razor blades. Same for drinks. Pretty neat trick if you want to torture someone in a secret off-shore detention facility that shall remain nameless. Or maybe a despairing pit beneath a tree in Florin. Not such a neat trick when you’re sitting in the den and the kids ask if you feel any better – and you answer with a gurgling cough that sounds somewhat like Gollum just died inside you.
- Maybe it’s not the undead or the only-mostly-dead. Maybe it’s the dead Gollum. Well, maybe not; after all, if he were dead, would it really hurt that much to have him stuck in your throat? I dunno, but I doubt it.
- Speaking of Spanish, is soymilk really Spanish for “I am milk” ? That’s bothered me for a long time now. If you think about it, it makes sense. Those soybeans are trying to take over everything. I bet they’re responsible for this mess.
- You know how people groan when they reach maybe 180 years old? That’s how I groan when I try to move the slightest bit – at least, it is until I start coughing.
- The other night, I realized I was freezing so badly that I was sweating terribly. I’ve never been so cold it made me sweat before. I realize this may seem confusing; don’t worry about it. I think my core temperature was somewhere around 0 Kelvin while my outer shell pushed through the sun’s corona.
- Speaking of rap singers, I have decided my rap name will be “Intense Vanilla.” Wait, I think that was actually supposed be my wrapping name at the mall during Christmas. Sorry about that. It’s an easy mistake to make, especially when you’re coughing 28 hours a day (plus 14 more at night).
- I don’t know where 23 relates to a top-ten list, but the number resonates with me. It’s like, the number 23 and I, Michael Jordan, have somehow been linked together. Nah, that’s crazy. See? I must be really whacked-out sick.
- My lips are more cracked than the sidewalks by an abandoned Detroit factory, but I’m not going to tell you which one. You’ll have to guess.
- Rebound congestion is a failure of modern science. Why do they make medicine that makes a non-problem suddenly become a problem? I was coughing, so I took cough medicine. How is making my sinuses feel like someone just drove a monster truck up my nostrils going to help with that? Was the theory to get my mind off the coughing by making me feel miserable somewhere else? If so, you have drastically underestimated this cough, evil pharmaceutical industry! Take that. You can’t make me not feel miserable.
Ok, well, that’s enough of that. I appreciate you playing along with me. Please forgive the typos, as I typed this while I was blacked out from a particularly violent series of combustion coughs. But it’s ok; I did it on my smartphone while driving, so at least I didn’t waste any time. I’ve got quick thumbs. It only took, I dunno, 1032 years to write (thankfully, I finally got caught by a stoplight, or it may have taken even longer than the monkeys writing Shakespeare). Really, though, I had nothing better to do than try to suppress a few gazillion coughs.
To your health!