Thursday, February 20, 2014

I Won't Survive The Next Pandemic

      I try to keep things real. I, of course, mean that in the least "hip hop" way imaginable. I try to keep as closely tethered to reality or what I think is reality as often as possible. Two big reasons for doing so, is that one; one day, I may not have a choice BUT to be crazy (fucking age related dementia) and two; I've been doing this reality for so long, it's kinda hard to get keen on completely different one (fucking reality related laziness).


The most awesome alternate reality movie...ever possibly made.

      In keeping with, keeping things real, I aim for realism regarding my personal limitations, a big one being my ability to persevere random illness. I am a big, completely whiny bitch, when it comes to getting sick. I whimper and moan like my insides are being pelted with hot coals, wrapped in barbed wire tossed by beautiful women spouting phrases like, "I'd date you, but, I'm into guys with penises." and "I would totally have sex with you, if I were blind, mostly brain dead...and this vagina didn't belong to me."

Being that as it may, I'm fairly certain that when the next global pandemic hits, I'm a dead man. Why you may ask? Let me see...well...

I'm A Virus Vacuum.


Me...20 seconds after I see someone sick on t.v.

      I have kids and as anyone that has kids can tell you, they are the harbinger of death. Every slight variation of flu, bronchial infection, cold or sniffle identified or as yet identified within the past 200 years, has probably come through my house...twice. Inevitably, due to the sheer volume of kid power, I will get whatever they have multiplied by ten. I'm sure it's not actually multiplied, but, my aging, decrepit body is more than willing to make it seem like it is. 

      I have it on good authority that as we age, so does our body's willingness to cut us a break on how crippling a common cold is. When I was 10, a cold consisted of drinking orange juice, while watching cartoons and lying to my mother that I'd only had one Luden's cough drop, when, I'd actually slammed half the box (Why? Because they're fucking candy. I've never had a cough get better from Luden's.), waiting a half hour, then playing outside until I was reminded that I was sick. 

Now, I have fever dreams for a week, like a cholera patient from the 1800's, cough up a lung, pray for a death that never comes and shit myself for 3 days straight.  

Immobility Will Be My Downfall.


1% of my sick time, the rest, crapping...no kidding.

      As it would seem, getting older and getting sick, doesn't make for an easy marriage within the body. I've often theorized that once a person reaches a certain age, his or her own body treats every illness like a convoluted revenge plot against itself. "This is what you get for having all that fun and boozing all those times! Remember? No? I do...and perhaps you will too. Bastard. (cue dramatic pipe organ)"

      I formed this theory and many others over the time I have been completely incapacitated and immobilized by everyday sickness. I say, "everyday sickness", to mean "something regular people get that makes them feel somewhat peaked for a while, then, they return to normal living". When I get an "everyday sickness", I'm in and out of sleep, cold sweaty and remarkably like a dead man with a heart beat. So, if and when the next pandemic hits, it's going to know right where to find me, if I've been stricken by something trivial like a head cold in the interim.

I'm Not Going To Know 
The Difference Anyway.


Jokes on him...that's a rectal thermometer. 

      Being that I think I'm dying, most of the time, being actually sick only makes matters worse for me. Knowing there's a pandemic sweeping the world, will only make that worse. Suddenly, every cough will mean certain death. Somehow, I feel this will deliver a certain calm with it. When, you believe yourself to be constantly besieged by death, you're kind of alright with it steam rolling your silly ass, eventually. 

      As a person, who takes even slight illness as a omen of death, when the pandemic flaps it's blackened soul stripping wings above us, I won't know the difference anyway. Knowing my luck, it'll be the first time in my paranoid lifespan that I think it's 3 boxes of Luden's affair and little more. Poor stupid deluded fool.