Here’s the story of my birthday, ultra-dysentery, and side effects.
If I’m going to suddenly sprout wings and turn into a giant evil villainous dragon, I would appreciate a tad forenotice. They try to entice me with fancy advertising and the next thing you know, I’m scaling Big Ben with a fair maiden named Gertrude in one hand. It was a dream I had. Long story. She didn’t make. Because this isn’t Hollywood. She would never have made it in real life. I have very detailed dreams, indeed.
So you buy into the fancy advertising and you buy the medicine. But there’s more! It smells like the delightful Calypso drink from when I was young. In haste, I consume a teaspoon of this magical medicine. I then read the leaflet that comes with it, seen as an afterthought by all men that I’ve ever met. After my final gulp, I read about the side effects. But it doesn’t specify what they are. I’d appreciate some details. Sure, it’s probably just some light genital irritation, but hey, we all get that. Ahem. But they might be covering something up. I might turn into an elf. My pee might turn acidic and that would be horrific. Just think about all the toilet bowls I’d go through. Literally. I’d appreciate some details. It just sounds like they’re covering something up. It’s like all the hobos they tested it on died for nothing.
You may recall last week my despair at dying. I think that’s a normal reaction. I think an abnormal reaction would be a positive reaction. “Hey world, I’m dying! Yippie-kay-yay! I’m on top of the world! Yea! Death – oh beautiful death! Come to me my friend!” I’ve met a few people like that. That’s the type of people I know. But I’m not pretentious. I don’t hang around with hipster, bohemian, arty, beatnik, ultra-individualistic types. They find me. I’m not sure why but it sure has made life interesting. I was running with a theory at one point that it was like A Christmas Carol. William S. Burroughs. Vincent van Gogh. Maxwell Bodenheim. These types finding me to alert me to a greater purpose in life. I don’t know where I was going with that theory. Probably to Crazytown. What can I say, I’m a contemporary. Except the only truth I learned from them was how to avoid bad hygiene.
Turns out, I’m not dead. I will be one day. I don’t why I just said that, it’s rather depressed me. Not that I need any more depressing. But just because I’m not dead doesn’t mean I was inaccurate about my prophecy last week that by this point this week I would be dead. I think. I feel like death. That’s my point. People say that all the time though, and to be honest, how do we know what death feels like? Are we talking about the sensations one feels when dying, or are we talking about death as a living incarnation? And yes, I am aware of the contradiction there. If it’s the latter, how do we know how The Grim Reaper feels? He’s a serial killer. They’re warped. They’re as happy at Larry or Gertrude after I let her go. So, in that respect, I don’t feel like death. But what if it’s the former? The actual sensation? Well then, that’s a whole other story. Depends how you die. Die in a war, sure, terrible feeling. Die on a rollercoaster – well, that’s a good way to hop onto the bunny of infinity.
What is my point? I really don’t know. I suppose that my point is that my original point of feeling like death is a rather invalid point as points go. I might feel downtrodden, but feeling like death is a rather precarious thing to say. I’m not well. STILL! One and a half weeks of non-stop coughing. And it isn’t a pleasant, almost playful, cough, oh no, it’s the cough of a man dying of bronchitis who also has violent ultra-dysentery who just so happens to be having his doodah’s nibbled on by a pissed off pixie. That is not pleasant, my friends.
It was my birthday on Friday gone. A quiet affair. Just what I wanted. I got some shirts and a medal. World’s Greatest Son. Ah, I’m kidding. It would also be offensive to the other two. It was a genuine World War Two medal. Something of a burgeoning collector. I also got some money. A lottery ticket. Didn’t win. Dagnabbit. A board game. And a lovely chocolate cake. A nice day interspersed with extreme bouts of extremely violent coughing. So an interesting birthday, it was. I found it remarkable that it got even more interesting.
I was in town on my birthday. Various government obligations. Very boring. Whilst walking home, I was treated to a typical Yorkshire brass band. I don’t know if it was for me. There were many elderly people watching on as I walked by the front lawn of an old people’s home. But it was nice. Unusual. An interesting memory of the day. That was lovely. Less lovely was the following day. My brother and I went to see a movie. Birthday treat. Oh, the movie was great. Less great was the man three seats down from me who, fourteen times in two hours, farted. I didn’t know what to say. “Please stop that”. “I’ve been counting your farts for a humorous, if disgusting, anecdote on my blog”. “That really smells incredibly bad – you really need a doctor”. I have a cold as well as a chest infection. I have to sniff up roughly once a minute. I thought I was gonna die. I nearly passed out. Smelt like the bathroom of that man I mentioned earlier with ultra-dysentery.
That would be a funny way to go. Funny and annoying. It’s disgusting, so we must end on a high note. Unlike him – ba-dum-tish. Oh what do you want from me? I’m not well. I’m not coherent when I’m not well. I’m not very coherent when I am well, either, to be honest. God I can still smell it. I’m trying my best. I had a good birthday. A little sullied by the coughing but I tried my best to enjoy it. That’s the important thing. Always try to enjoy life. You’ll have many good memories when it comes to the dying part. You’ll be able to say, “Yeah, but what a life I’ve lived. I was once in a cinema when a man’s colon exploded”.
Okay, I had better go. My coughing is getting pretty bad. I’ll talk to you next week. Or not. I don’t know what is gonna happen. Especially after taking this new medicine. I might be off to Big Ben fairly soon with a fair maiden named Gertrude…
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “On your birthday you should throw me a party. This is my advice for everybody, especially my clones”.
Peace Out :|:
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To Contrive & Jive
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