Sick of sick

2002-03-20 - 8:58 a.m.

I feel you snot, I know you're there. My eyes are swimming in you.

I remember my father saying to me once that he hated being sick because he felt like his body was betraying him. I can't very well feel the same indignancy as I betray my body fairly often. Like now, for example: I have a doob in my mouth, a needle in my arm, it's snowing and I'm naked, I'm running with scissors around a pool that is covered with thin ice, and I kidnapped a cheeky monkey to ride my back and hit me in the head with a piece of driftwood. I didn't wash my hands after my last piss, I stare into my old microwave like I'm waiting for a show to start, I walk to the bar on blustery nights without a hat on.

I should be dead, so I really have no room to complain about my occasional health set-backs.

That's not what being sick is about for me though. Being sick gives me license to bitch all I want. Being sick gives me license to be as foul as I want too. Like the snot that's in my head, if I snort a big day-glo green gob of it back hard enough to dislodge it and hock it out, I'm psyched. Frankly, you should be psyched for me too, I'm that much snot closer to health.

Am I sick enough to go home from work early? No, probably not. If I could look forward to some quality motherly nurturing from a sweetie health care provider in the comfort of my own couch or bed, shielded from the world and it's ills by the administration of a loving tuck of the blanket around my less than well self, then fuck yeah I'd go home. Instead, if I went home, I'd sit around watching TV or busying myself the way bored boys do when they're alone.

So that's it then. I'll tough it out today, bitching all the way. I'll save my sick time for when I'm dead.

>A-CHEW<