Here’s the story of illness, Lincoln’s beard, and rashes, rashes everywhere!
Saturday started so well that I had no idea that by the end of the week, I’d be getting angry at a chocolate milkshake. I haven’t been well. So not well, I haven’t been able to peel my face off my pillow of a week. My room now enriched in an odour not known to science. And as for me, well, I look like some shaggy bum. My hair hasn’t been washed properly. My facial hair is going full Lincoln. And I’ve taken more pills than the entire cast of Breaking Bad. So forgive me if I sound like a man about to collapse on the floor and die, because I am a man about to collapse on the floor and die…
I awoke on Saturday morn with a song in my heart and a skip in my step. What? Oh, come on, at least one of those things must be believable. Oh, fine, I actually awoke on Saturday morn the same, usual, grumpy old fart you all know and love. I’ve been helping dad clean out the attic, but after a week of doing that, we haven’t actually gotten very far. I suppose that’s when one realises one is a hoarder. When one spends a ridiculous amount of time cleaning it all up, only for the pile to have remained the same size. Never a good sign, really.
We’ve uncovered all kinds of gems. One of my great granddad’s paper driving licences, one of the very first issued. Old photos of mum and dad looking very ‘70s’. Everyone really did wear flares and skimpy skirts back then. We even found a bunch of my old stuff. Including a naughty pen I was given in school. Thankfully, I found it before dad did. Oh, you know how it is. Friend visits Blackpool. Friend brings you home a gift. Gift is one of those pens with a woman on the side, and when you tip it upside down, all her clothes come off. I wanted some Blackpool rock, but I guess I sorta did (one for the adults).
I really wanted to use it in my school exams, but I chickened out…
Among the treasures were some old computer tower decks and these strange plastic round things dad called ‘vinyl’. Remember when the monkeys saw the monolith in ‘2001’? A bit like me with the ‘vinyl’. I also found some signed Oasis CDs, but nobody likes them, so I binned them. But those computers. Real relics. Far beyond their serviceable life. I was delighted. Smashy smashy time. Old computers must be destroyed. With a huge hammer. And an even huger grin. On my face. It was a hoot.
Sadly, those days felt like a million miles away come Sunday. I awoke to a festival of colour and lights, but no, it wasn’t the northern lights. In fact, if it was, I’d be worried someone had taken my bed whilst I was asleep and taken me to a place where one can currently see the lights. And that would work, readers. It really would. I sleep like a baby on the best of days. And I was all smashed out on that night, so that was one of the aforementioned ‘best of days’. Not that I’m encouraging you to take my bed and transport me to the North Pole. Please don’t do that to me. I’m sick.
I woke up on Sunday morning with the bitchiest of migraines humanly imaginable. Most men have no clue as to how painful it was. No biggie, though. I’ll just ride it out. Like a storm. I pumped myself full of strong anti-migraine medication, and went to sleep.
I awoke several hours later, still in pain and now feeling incredibly sick. Like, really, really sick. I was shaking, I was pale, I couldn’t eat anything – basically, my body was giving up on me one organ at a time. First the brain, then the stomach. Never rains but it pours. That’s my new motto in life. It’s not a very cheery motto, but with each new day with this mysterious illness getting progressively worse, I’ve not really been in the best of moods.
The problem is, I’m a man of routine. I wake up at the same time each day. I go to the bathroom and I have a list of things I do. I then have an agenda for each new day, from the important, like take out the bins, to the less important, like catching up with my programmes. Lying in bed all week isn’t good for me. Sure, I catch up on all my television, but what about my precious, precious routine?
You have no idea what it’s like waking up each morning and looking in the mirror only to see looking back a scraggy and scruffy hobo with no licence to thrill. And you can’t do anything about it! You’re so dizzy, shaky, sickly and frail, that it’s impossible to shave without slicing something important off. You can’t stand for more than a few minutes before you need to sit down. All you can do is watch yourself fall apart. It’s horrendous.
Ah, you’re thinking, but you’re better now, right? WRONG! Come Monday, I was feeling a tad better. I spent less time asleep and more time watching my beloved programmes. Then guess what? Yes, another migraine. ANOTHER! Unlucky 13 for 2015. Just when I was on the mend – boom! Oh, fate, you cruel wench. I spent most of Tuesday in agony and tears because that migraine was even worse than the one a few days previously.
Come Wednesday, the migraine had subsided but the sickness was still rife. I felt like the biggest pile of horse manure since the Great Horse Manure drought of 1783 ended in spectacular fashion. Hey, that isn’t gibberish. I haven’t been well. My brain isn’t working properly. And it doesn’t work properly on the best of days, never mind these, the worst of days.
Hoorah for Thursday, eh? No more sickness. But the headache returned. But that went by Friday. But the sickness returned. And guess what it brought with it? Lots and lots of rashes. And not the delicious bacon kind, but the, ‘Oh my God, what in the name of hell is that?’ kind. Measles, probably. That’s the current theory. None-itchy spotty rashes, fever, dietary issues, headaches – oh spiffing, I have a child’s disease.
Of course, I could go to the doctors to find out what’s wrong once and for all, but you wouldn’t get me anywhere near a doctors or a hospital even if you paid me. I would have to be near death for that to happen. And by ‘near death’, I, of course, mean ‘so near death the priest has been called.’
Actually, I’ve just started itching. Could be chicken pox. Like measles, I haven’t had that before, either. The only vaccination I’ve had is for tuberculosis. So if you’re one of these parents thinking, ‘Meh, they don’t need vaccinations,’ GET THEM THE FRICKIN’ VACCINATIONS! Measles or chicken pox at 25 is not pleasant, and unlike as a child, they kill adults. More than survive. And they’ll pass it on to their children because the germs stay in your system until the day you die. I’m kinda hoping it’s a new disease, though. I’d quite like a new disease named after me. Honestly, it’s the only way anyone is gonna remember me.
But then again, knowing my luck, they’ll name it after someone else, won’t they?
I’m not being melodramatic, readers, or a ‘typical whinging man’. I am, quite literally, going to die. Of this itchy-rash-headache-nausea-tummy-itis. Oh Lord, another rash just appeared. Dear God, help me someone!
Well, this looks like it’s the end of me. And that’s a shame. I’ve really grown to like you guys. I didn’t want it to end like this, but I’m obviously about to die. So please remember me. As a constant strain on society, a total nuisance and a complete and utter arse.
Oh, you want to know about the milkshake? Well, you see, because my routine is now a million shattered pieces of a broken routine, I’m getting angry with everything. ‘Stupid migraine, I had things to do today, you slimy bastard!’ Mother did me a lovely chocolate milkshake (I honestly don’t know why anyone ever leaves home). But even that normally tasty beverage tasted funky what with all my bodily systems fluctuating so wildly. I got so damn angry at that bloody milkshake…
Ooh, look, another rash has just popped up.
Save me, Superman!
American author, John Steinbeck, Jr. (1902-1968), once wrote: “A sad soul can kill you quicker, far quicker, than a germ.”
Peace Out :|:
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To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
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Hark Around the Words
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