Drugged up to the Eyeballs and Still Suffering

Post CCLXXXII

Here’s the story of illness, my points, and rogue nails.

It’s hardly my fault I was nearly run over several times this week because I wasn’t wearing my glasses because I don’t like getting them wet, is it now? Admittedly, I’ve just made it sound entirely my fault, but that’s not the point. No, the point is, I’m always right. I’m not entirely sure how I’m always right, especially now considering I’m clearly in the wrong, but that’s not the point. No, the point is… shut up. I hate wearing glasses. You know that, I know that, that evil leprechaun Alfie knows that, we all know that. And when it rains, which it does a fair bit around these parts of merry old England, the rain dries on the lenses as these huge white dots. I don’t know why. I thought it might be the glass in the frames. Then I got another pair, and they reacted the same way to rain. Now I just think all spectacles hate me. They need to be clean otherwise they’ll trigger my temperamental migraines. So when it rains, and when I head outside, I do not wear them. How blind am I without them? SEVERAL CARS! Several. That’s a lot. Does that answer all your questions? Good. Moving on…

Some would argue that a bit of rain and mystery white dots aren’t worth ending up in hospital with a couple hundred broken bones. You couldn’t be more wrong, readers. Have you any idea how many hours I spend each week trying to clean these sodding glasses? I mean, two hours one day, one and a half the next. It’s more suffering than I can take. I’m not doing a grand job of convincing you this is a great idea, am I? That’s not the point. The point is… shut up. Again.

Some would argue that laser surgery might be an option, but you know how much fate enjoys throwing darts at my picture, taped to the wall of eternity. I can’t have it done. I don’t know why. After they said ‘no’ I sorta drifted away, like a speck of dust floating through the cosmos, or like when, during a storm, your only bag for life blows away when you open the car boot. Just me? Drat and dingleberries…

I’ve had far more than my fair share of darts flung at my face by Mother Fate, in recent weeks. I’m drugged up to the eyeballs at the moment. My flu’s are weird, readers. Wake up. Headache, nausea, blocked nose, sore throat. Go to bed. Wake up. Headache, blocked nose, coughing like mad. Well, at least the nausea’s gone! Go to bed. Wake up. Nausea’s back, but the headache’s gone. Nose still blocked, still coughing like crazy. Go to bed. Wake up. Nose blocked, coughing easing, I’m on the road to recovery! Yahoo! Go to bed. Wake up. Headache, blocked nose, coughing, eyes watering, dizzy, can’t stand up… oh, for God’s sake…

The whisky wasn’t working, you see. I know, it’s almost as if alcohol isn’t the best medicine. Not what my grandma used to say, but never mind. I know, I’ll stick to the whisky but supplement it. Yes, I’ll do that. Cough medicine drink, yes, that’ll do nicely. As well as the whisky. Oh, and also, a cough medicine in a bottle. I’ll have that each day, too. Oh, and a throat spray. And, finally, three cough sweets. So that’s my routine, guys. Cough drink, cough medicine, spray cough thingamajig, throat sweet number one, throat sweet number two, throat sweet number three… whisky. Some doctors would argue I’m overdoing the medication malarkey, but I argue you can never have enough drugs. Stay in school.

So I’m waking up one day feeling better, the next feeling worse. My two week mega flu is heading towards its third week. Which I am not looking forward to. I have things to do and things to get on with. You try to carry on regardless, but it’s always difficult. I had to go back to work this week. That was fun. No, wait, terrible. Always getting those two words mixed up…

So you sit there, with a client. “Yes, I’d like this price to be changed on the menu, then this colour changed, then this, then that.” “Sorry, I’ve just sneezed like, a bazillion times all over the computer screen, give me an hour to clean this up.” An hour later. “So,” cough, splutter, sneeze. “You’d,” cough, splutter, sneeze. “Like,” sneeze, sneeze, cough. “Me,” cough, cough, splutter. “To,” falls unconscious, head collapses onto desk…

My body doesn’t like fighting problems very much, you see. On the one hand, it has to, but it’s like a naff security guard at… I don’t know, the world’s biggest sperm bank. One day, some big mean nasty robbers decide to break in and steal all the sperm. No idea why. Like all good robbers, they send in a fall guy to suss the situation. Where the cameras are, what the security is like, things like that. But the old security guard is a wise dog. He knows these robbers are a nasty virus and he knows he must stop them. Can’t be too difficult, right? I mean, he has a baton and some nifty pepper spray. Suddenly, the fall guy launches an attack on the security guard. You panic as you lose your baton and accidentally spray the pepper spray into your own eyeballs. But you’ve been around the block a few times. You knee the robber in the balls and make a citizen’s arrest. Then you look to your right and see an army from Mad Max coming over the horizon, realise you’re absolutely screwed, and cower in your little security cabin and wait for it to all blow over. Soon, the Mad Max army are running riot and you have no sperm left. You see what I mean, readers? What… what d’ya mean no? Aww, come on, that was a really good metaphor, it was…

It’s just not trying, my body. It’s like when I cut myself shaving or on that rogue nail I cut off this week that went flying and was only discovered when it embedded itself in my foot. I don’t stop bleeding for a good hour or two. ‘I mean, we could stop the bleeding, but I’m really enjoying this movie I’m watching.’ This lack of action will catch up with me one day in the future. I’ll end up dying of a cold. Or have my hair get caught in the ceiling fan, flinging me through the wall, straight into the neighbour’s bedroom, at which point I’ll be throttled to death by her husband getting the wrong end of the stick. Still, worse ways to die.

Probably.

I suppose it’s not all bad, readers. No, really. I still live with my parents so I still have people who watch out and care for me when I’m poorly. If I lived alone, I’d be… probably long dead by now, because I have no idea how I’d manage on my own. It’s been lovely, really. Dinner made for me. Ice cream every night. Actually, an ice cream sandwich, which is only marginally less messy than a fried egg sandwich, but still, the thought is lovely.

I mean, I know I’m 26, but you’re never too old for an ice cream sandwich…

American writer and filmmaker, Megan Boyle (b. 1985), once wrote: ‘Being sick feels like you’re wearing someone else’s glasses.’

Peace Out :|:


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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other blog:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
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