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post #151
bio: stu

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Favorite Things
· The Flaming R. Kelly
· Malfatti
· Johnny Cash
· Chuck Klosterman
· Deadwood, Seasons 1 & 2

Previous Posts
Notes on a Pandemic
Notes on Sobriety
Republicans Are Tough Guys
Brain Fog
Clown Posse
Uber, but For Wrong Numbers

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Down With Disease
I've been sick for awhile now--hard to believe, I know, with the healthy lifestyle I live, but somehow the flu put me on my ass over a week ago. So instead of writing about how the Hold Steady almost killed me, or how riding the Cyclone made me fear for my life, I've been feverish and coughing and drinking orange juice and sweating and all those fun things being sick entails.

So I haven't written, and for that, I apologize. Partially because I feel I've already written my definitive post on being sick, but also because talking to someone who is sick is just about the dullest thing in creation: "I'm sick. I feel achy. I'm hot. I think I need some O.J. Where's my blanket? I'm going to sneeze. [cough, cough, cough, cough, cough] Oh, I guess I coughed instead. [sneeze] Oh, there it is. I'm so sick..."

In my more lucid moments, I apologize to those around me for being cranky, sick, and no fun. Mostly, I haven't bothered. Being sick makes you myopic to the point of solipsism--your universe collapses in on itself, leaving only you, your fever, and your germs to converse, with the light muzak of the death rattle in your lungs to set the mood.

My roommate, however, has dealt with my illness by going crazy and turning into Howard Hughes. Repeatedly washing his hands every five minutes seems extreme, albeit prudent. Not coming within eight feet of me is perfectly reasonable, if difficult to do in a NYC apartment. But the spray bottle filled with a rubbing alcohol mixture of his own design he uses to disinfect everything before he touches it if there's a possibility I might have breathed near it, well, that seems extreme.

And it breeds evil thoughts. Thoughts of sneezing all over the bottle--the one thing he can't actually spray to disinfect. Thoughts of emptying the alcohol out and replacing it with the contents of my water glass--maybe after swilling some of it and spitting it back in. Evil evil thoughts.

I don't know where these thoughts come from. Probably because I'm jealous that he still has an opportunity to fight back at the disease, while I just have to wait out the occupation.

Oh well. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Or weakens you so the next thing that comes along will kill you.

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