Not to be melodramatic, folks - but I think I am dying. Everyone says it's seasonal allergies, but I think they are lying. Based on personal experience, I'd have to guess it's some kind of medieval plague, like the Black Death, or even possibly an ancient Mayan curse unleashed by careless archaeologists on the heads of all mankind. I bet some twit built another shopping mall on top of one of those Indian burial grounds we're always tripping over in Illinois. They really should mark those things.
It hurts to breathe. It also hurts to stand, lay, sit, swallow and blink. My ears are full of some disgusting mucus-type substance that makes me dizzy, hard of hearing, and if it doesn't stop I am going to go smack dab nuts and do a Van Gogh on myself (although I'm not sure it's legal these days to mail ears to unrequited lovers. I could prop it up on the mantelpiece, but the last thing I need is one more stupid knick-knack cluttering up this stupid house).
Sigh. Even my hair hurts. It feels like I am combing razor blades across my scalp.
I want my mommy.
But I'm not the only one. A bunch of us at work are sick this week. You don't know ugly until you're stuck working around a slew of sinus-infested zombies who cough so hard they clog up the Xerox machine with bits of lung tissue. One feverish co-worker is especially talented at projectile sneezing - (which is a lot like paintball but messier, and you need a strong stomach to participate). Anyway, I do some of my best work hiding under the computer desk in the store room.
Sadly, the cure is worse than being sick. Don't you love how pharmaceuticals give nasty medicine those cutesy flavors that are supposed to render the drug more palatable, but instead make you want to hurl? This morning I took a slug of a viscous, purple cough syrup that claimed to be grape flavored, but in bitter actuality tasted more like some sicko ran Barney through the blender a few times too many.
As gross as that sounds, it was way better than another cold medicine I tried, the one that's a tablet you drop into a glass of water where it fizzes like Chernobyl going down, and leaves this minty-death-camp after taste in the mouth. My cat yaks up nicer stuff.
Sorry. It's hard to be witty when you're being sucked down a tunnel and beckoned towards the light. I can't tell if that's my grandpa waving at me from the Beyond, or just some hairy kid on his bike outside the living room window because I'm too weak to put on my glasses. I'm scared if I am really, truly dying, they'll just hand me a time card when I stumble into the Great Hereafter, cos God knows all I ever do is work, work, work anyway.
But... TAH DAH ... according to those marvelous medics at (you guessed it!) The International House of Disease Control & Pancakes, the only known cure for the Black Death and similar plagues is to listen to the same 70's Disco hit for about 8,000 times, thereby encouraging the cold germ to flee its surroundings and, out of sheer desperation, attaching itself to another host body, preferably one with better taste in music.
Are you tired of work? For the modest sum of only $99.99, I can show you how to retire by getting lots of innocent strangers to mail you checks for $99.99, barring legal complications, of course. This offer is good until the Aliens land on the White House lawn bearing gifts of advanced technology and wondrous cures for heinous diseases such as cancer, heart disease and polyester. (just kidding)(God. I've still gotta get that stupid laundry done...)