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I'm Sick; Feel Sorry for Me

I mean it, feel sorry for me

This is Dark Cloud on Wednesday, September 07, 1994.

It has been what the Chinese would call an interesting year, interesting being a sort of epithet in the Middle Kingdom. In and out of court, win some, lose some. Yesterday, I won some, so I should have been in a better mood than I was which was oblivious. It was only late that I realized I was sick. I rarely get sick, being a man among men, a giant of health, but when I do, I whine a lot and since I’m still divorced and not living with anyone, you are going to be the recipient of my whine. If you don’t like it, tough. I’m sick.

I can always tell when I am sick because my vision goes noticeably out of focus, like a Polaroid camera. Lines thicken, blur and pull apart like Velcro to show two table legs where there had been one. My head aches, and I never get headaches, per se, so I notice. My throat feels like a sheet of thick, clear plastic lain over the remnants over charcoal fire. My eyes water, my hair, which normally curls from a sense of duty, is limp and lifeless. I can look into any mirror thick enough not to crack and say, “Verily, Mr. Wonderful is not at his best.” What an understatement. The skin on my face relaxes and droops till I resemble a cartoon character best voiced by Jim Backus. My teeth feel sheathed in dust bunnies.

But underneath this sparkling exterior beats the same old venomous heart, cheerfully seeking out, pulling down by the throat , and consuming every new age condolence I get, unless accompanied by a bottle of booze. Liquor is terrible for mere mortals, when they are sick, but I have discovered that a mouthful of Tequila, held with the head back and tongue shoved forward to allow the sore throat to be swathed, is an elixir worthy of respect. Also, hot green chile, the sort that seizes your innards, does mighty well. And a book. With my new granny glasses, a stomach full of fire and a Tequila Sunrise, being ill doesn’t have to be the hell it ought.

Still, I hate having the flu. It’s the equivalent of being staked out and down. You have no enemy, no will, and no ambition.

Freshen this for me, will you? Tah.