Me: “I’m still sick? Still? Now? You’ve gotta’ be kidding me!”
Me: “No shit dude, you’re toast. Haven’t posted squat. Just some blather about a newscaster… and you haven’t watched TV news since you had a black and white set so your concern makes no sense. Also you’re speaking in the third person.”
Me: “Fine fine, I’ll write something in my blog.”
Me: “Whatever, you’re probably going to just phone it in.”
Me: “Hell yeah I will. Nothin’ but fluff.”
Despite being awesome, I couldn’t kick the cold myself. So I got all humble and went the Dr. for a dose of magic potion. (OK fine they’re antibiotics but what are antibiotics if not a miracle? Hell, given the choice between magic potion and modern medicine, smart money might very well be on the latter. Sure Sauron and his potion of strength sounds cool but it’s all chickenshit compared to beating polio and anyone who wants superhuman strength can just buy heavy equipment.) Note: In case you were wondering, they don’t like the phrase “magic potion” at the pharmacy.
I figured I’d be fine in a few days. Nope! I recovered a bit and then crashed again. Christ on a cracker, how long does it take to shake a cold? Apparently forever.
Fuck it; I logically reasoned that I’d clock in at work whether I’m dead or not. If I’m going to be miserable I might as well get paid. It sorta’ helped my attitude to be productive (if not the usual powerhouse) and I’m not contagious so why the hell not?
Even so it has been weeks and I’m a walking dead battery. Wake up, drag your ass to work, barely scrape across the finish line, a couple hours sitting on the couch like a zombie, and then sleep. Eat. Or don’t. Who gives a shit. Lather rise repeat the next day. Even the cat thinks I’m lazy.
I’ve more or less dropped out of society (which for me isn’t that far anyway) and the Foxinator is said to have muttered something about a “man cold”. I swear I haven’t been whining or watching TV so the accusation is denied. If you crawl under the porch and quietly sleep for a month that’s not a man cold, that’s… that’s… I suppose it makes me an honorary teenager? Yes that’s it; useless, lazy, disinterested, and smelly. I’ve been temporarily demoted to teenager.
In desperation I went through about six hundred dumbass phone calls and misdirected papers to get a refill of magic potion antibiotics. I’ve had mixed results.
Anyway I can safely say two things:
- The passage of time may be like sands through an hourglass but at some point the only way you know what week it is comes from looking at the dwindling firewood pile.
- There have got to be much sicker and much older people that, when dealing with the hassles of calling in a prescription refill like I just faced, just give up and die instead. Seriously, the only reason I persevered was because I was not particularly ill. (My surprise at the pharmacies manifest incompetence might be in part because I usually use a more “citified” service and had higher expectations. This time chose a rural place because I didn’t feel like driving far. I think more people are killed by Gertrude the octogenarian and Betty the woman with the IQ of tapwater who jointly can’t operate a FAX machine in rural bumfuck nowhere than high tech database mixups at Walgreens. Lesson learned, next time I’ll drive to freakin’ Baltimore if I have to. Watching a half dozen rubes screw shit up for 8 hours is just too painful. Nuff said on that.)
I’ll leave you with this:
