Sick Days

It's official. I've finally broken out of this miserable slump I've been in since I awoke Monday morning and ordered my girlfriend to fetch me Pepto-Bismol pills ASAP! I then apologized for my early morning madness, sweating like a meth fiend going through withdrawal, and told her I was gonna puke everywhere. I then went back to bed. I remember as my girlfriend, Kristin, went off to work she asked if I'd like to come on her lunch break with her. "Yeah sure. I'll call ya," I mumbled and went back to bed. President’s Day was doomed from the start!

I awoke at noon, my stomach wrenching, the room spinning, moans slipping out of my mouth like a some sort of rape victim. A rape victim at the hands of germs! I thought I was fucking dying. I hadn't felt so sick since I was in the second grade. Still, no upchuck greeted me, and for a man who's vomit-phobic* like myself, this is great news no matter how bad the pain.

*(phobic toward my own brand. I have no problem watching others throw up. I hate watching my hands holding a toilet bowl as half chewed sausage travels through my nasal passages).

Still with me? GREAT.

Then, Kristin called me from work, undoubtedly asking if I wanted to grab lunch with her. I answered, "Hey. I'm sick. I can't come on break with you. Sorry." Then she groaned. "Oh God. I'm so sick too. Can you bring my fucking Pepto pills right fucking now?" SHIT. I slothed my way out of bed and drove over to her place of employment like a drunk driver in the middle of a B.J. Here, we both sat in the my car like two defeated seasick sailors in the clutches of a dysentery.

Later that night, as we both collapsed in bed moaning gross nothings to each other about our condition, that stale sick smell permeating the air, the aches set in. They spread down my legs, into my back, into my eyeballs. I started shaking. "What the fuck is this about God?" I asked, remembering that old lady I almost mowed down last week outside of Quick Check. "I waved 'sorry' to her dammit," I tried to reason. But the pain pulsated greater.

Finally, I sunk into that state where the pain becomes so annoying and persistent, you have no choice but start giggling uncontrollably. You try to moan, but each moan brings a dull fever spasm to a muscle and you giggle. Anyone else have this? At times like this I find myself having the most demented good time in the history of man. Everything becomes funny and annoyingly painful. And it was at this point I decided to try my hand a good old fashioned B.M.

Sitting on the shitter, my muscles quaking in germ-soup, I picked up the National Enquirer that my girlfriend’s mom always picks up when we go get the most trivial items at any grocery outlet. It was at this time I sunk deepest into my hysterics of feverish dementia. I will try to construct the scene using pictorial evidence.

Exhibit A:

I turned the pages to find this charming crossword puzzle featuring every grandmother’s favorite sleuth, Angela Lansbury. She’s helplessly, yet seemingly happily trapped in the middle of the puzzle. I thought to myself, "Gee, how's see gonna WRITE her way out of this one?" The sick fucking laughter became uncontrollable. It hurt everywhere. Oh wait, you get it? She stared in "Murder She Wrote" OK, whatever. Fuck you too.

So I then turned the page to get away from Angela and to stop my maniacal laughter ,for it threatened to turn by bones into dust. Then I came across something not so funny. Thankfully, taking a second to think about it, I regained composure.

This unsolved murder was simply no laughing matter at all, sick or not. But turning my eyes two millimeters to the right, the laughter returned full force as I saw the police sketch of the murder suspect.

OH MY GOD! Franklin the Turtle is the Frankford slasher!!!

The resemblance between the two are simply uncanny. I could not believe the police missed this! Yet, I was able to solve the crime, all while nauseous and taking a poop.

I came back to reality, convincing myself that 8 dead people is no laughing matter even if a human turtle with a cap killed them. Unless the 8 were clowns. Then that would be funny and weird. Then, I read the caption at the bottom of the page, under the alleged killer’s photo, which read "Turn to Page 31 for more." This handy instruction was cleverly printed inside an arrow pointing you on. Naturally, I turned the page, thinking the next page would provide further clues about the Frankford Slasher.

Nope, it was just this ad for cute cats. Well, that's when I really fucking lost it. Oh my God. BY GEORGE, THIS INS’T PAGE 31 AT ALL. It was page 27. Oh man, I should really read page numbers more often. Not the first time this got me in such an inescapable conundrum.

Boy, I love being sick. I just read the tabloids and they crack me up like a hammer to stained glass. Every minute sucks and become funny, simultaneously .

So anyways, I was extremely tired yesterday and today, and barely ate anything yet, but Kristin and I feel better, and now we’re getting on with our lives. Fuck, I wish I was sick again. To live in a world that's always funny. A boy can dream, can't he?