Skip to main content

Sicky sucky.

I hate being sick more than just about anything I can imagine. Nothing can match the frustration and furious feverings, nor the lost time and energy.

I love a good excuse to nap as much as anyone, of course, but tossing and turning between coughing fits and flashes of fever & chills is not cool. Then there's that fuzzy headed acheyness when your cranium gets all full up on phlegm and mucous. That soggy brained feeling mixed with a dull, ceaseless pain. Don't get me started on how much I hate snot in any form--a hatred conditioned over many years of terrible allergies. But let's not forget that infuriating uselessness--between losing the ability to form contiguous (nevermind cohesive) thoughts to the leaden ache in every joint and are you supposed get anything done like that??

But of course that's just it. Everyone stops expecting you to be a productive member of society when you're sick. Which you'd think would be some kind of blessing except that somehow not having any choice in the matter kills any pleasure one could have taken in the free pass.

As you may have guessed by now, I was sick this weekend. It killed any chance of going out clubbing with my friends Saturday or seeing Vertigo in 70-fucking-mm at the AFI Silver. That's one of my all time favorite films and here it was going to be played all mega-screened at one of my favorite theaters but--no.

You're sick. So that's a no.

Mind you, I've been much, much sicker in my time. Sicker, I imagine, than some people will ever experience. More flippantly, I recall that weekend death-flu--the worst flu I can remember collapsed into a single weekend: huddled up on the couch shivering and delirious and babbling and utterly dissociated from and confused by the tennis match on tv. More seriously, I recall having Lyme disease in high school--I was lucky enough to reach stage 2 and require an IV line be inserted in my arm for a month of puking and shuddering frustrated summer-time lameness. More mysteriously, I remember that still unnamed mono-clone enigma that tried to take from me, evidently systematically, my beloved liver over a three month period.

But back to the here and now. As far as I'm concerned any form or degree of getting sick is an unwelcome and sloven invasion. There is no dignity in being sick. You're just muddled mass wherever you wind up, dripping and soggy and likely irritable. Any plans you may have had are compromised--any attempt at accomplishing things or managing responsibilities or chores, interrupted.

But all that aside, it just sucks. Plain and simple. It sucks getting sick. Regardless what plans got ruined or undignified lumps you become, it just feels awful and there's nothing you can do about it but suffer & be useless for a while. How's that fair?

Well, now that I'm arguably well again, I need to get on with my day. I'm off to scrub off the fever grime and sweats and face whatever the world came up with in my absence.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

A Valentine's Special.

Yeah, I'm one of those guys who's never really been with someone around Valentine's. I am sometimes baffled how other people manage these things--and why I can't. To be fair, it's probably as much my not trying enough and trying too hard as it is anything pariticularly wrong with me. Like, I know I don't get myself out there enough to meet guys and when I do it's probably compensatory and usually flawed from the start.

The other question is--why does it matter so much to me? Evidently it seems like something I want but something I'm scared of, too. It may also be something I'm just not very good at. I'm secretly timid and fearful of most confrontation and directness. For all my communication skills, I always seem to chicken out when it comes to talking to guys in a healthy, sustaining way. I'm a dreamer who wants something nice badly enough to stick to something for the concept of having it more than the reality of dealing with it; I want to…

Rocky Horror - Better than Glee.

You know, I've routinely refused to watch Glee. Like whoa. I've seen bits, it's amusing, but not my thing. Plus how can I be a properly pretentions intellectual fag if I don't look down on & snub snobbily some ragingly popular thing?? It's just not proper decorum, really.

I'm also in a Rocky Horror Picture Show shadowcast (website in progress, but that's us :)). Naturally, they were all excited about that Glee episode when they first heard about it; I on the other hand gave a pained smile and said "Isn't that special. I'm still not watching it."

Part of me's pretty glad I didn't, frankly. (hah! get it? like Tim Curry.)