It’s very possible that every late June it is written in the stars that I must contract some horrible weird unnamable illness.
I’m sick again. Gah. Seriously. Last year at this time I felt like warmed over death. And apparently, my immune system was feeling a little nostalgic.
Yesterday, I slept something like 20 hours. It was crazy. I took a shower and then had to sit, naked and dripping, on the floor of the bathroom for fifteen minutes while I decided whether I was going to walk towards the light or just throw up. I discovered one thing: my bathroom seriously needs to be cleaned. There’s boy pee scum all over the general vicinity of the toilet. Blech. Despite that realization, I neither puked nor walked toward the light. I did see Jimmy Hoffa though. He said to tell y’all to give up already, it’s just not worth it and that he kicked John Gotti’s ass in Scrabble the other day. Forget bocce, it’s all about Scrabble with the thug type people.
I never left the house yesterday. I made Esteban go out and get me some orange juice, some ham, and a newspaper. He told me that he was proud of me because I didn’t ask for Fudge Fluffs. Actually, the thought had crossed my mind but I’ve become kind of an anti-sugar evangelist. Get thee behind me, tasty fake chocolate and marshmallow goodness!
Oh, the best part: my voice sounds like a demon. Seriously. It’s like I’m channeling Zoul or something. Or maybe Kathleen Turner on testosterone. It’s not a sexy sultry kind of voice; it’s a ‘I’ve spent the last sixty years smoking 3 packs of unfiltered a day and cannonballing Tequila’ kind of voice.
Actually, I sound rather convincingly like my Mafia Grandma, come to think of it. Maybe I should call Aunt Brunhilda and tell her that she needs to feed her children or I’ll write her out of my will. And also that she’s not fooling anyone with that ‘perfect mother/perfect life’ bullshit.
I’m sorry. Not much funny today. This whateveritis has sapped my will to live. That and Ricky, my TiVo, has grown a bit bored with my constant pleas for more Martha Stewart and The Osbournes. I sense a bit of petulance when he asks me if I want him to delete Two Fat Ladies or if I want to watch it a third time. I can actually recite some of the lines along with them. It’s become some sort of strange Anglophile Rocky Horror for me now, only instead of rice, I’ll throw streaky bacon, and instead of toast, it will be pickled walnuts and organ meats.
When I went out on Saturday to purchase some Triaminic, I picked up Dirty Dancing on DVD but I’m holding off watching it, like a much anticipated snack, until 3:00. No one puts Weetabix in the corner.
I’m not making sense anymore. Not that I ever really did. Bah. Going to bed again.
One Trackback/Pingback
[...] me they couldn’t do it once I was in the hospital, I probably would have gone at it with a melon baller or something. Or for a holiday motif, I could try using an ice skate, like Tom Hanks did on his [...]
Post a Comment