Soap Opera tragedies...

I push, I pull
The days go slow
Into a void
We filled with death

from - Little Earthquakes by Beck

So I socially died the day after the day after Valentine’s Day. Luckily it was only a soap opera tradgedy and today is the day my blood besmirched hand pulls itself ominously up from the cliff. Those characters never die, they are mysteriously thrown to amnesia land where they can be brainwashed into believing they are some sorta foreign royalty.

Sickness apparently isn’t selective as to what dates are convenient to it’s victim. Your allergies do not care that you have a concert, your bronchitis doesn’t care that you have to go to work, your headache does not diffentiate between the YMCA and your bedroom.

My nose is no longer a functioning body part, but a uselss deadweight for sun glasses to sit on. Since my nose has went on an extended hiatus, my mouth has been working double overtime. Breathe, chew. Breathe, eat. Breathe, Speak. BREATHE, JUST BREATHE, and DON’T THINK ABOUT BREATHING.

Coughing only segued to more coughing rarely producing anything more than the Triscuit I had bravely tried to eat earlier in the day. Attempts at productivity were greeted with migraine headaches.

During this “down” time, I as able to take in massive amounts of useless TV. I’m now familiar and consequently addicted to Project Runway. You think it’s hard being a model, try dressing someone in fern leaves. Heidi Klum is mean.

I tried some reading and attempts at creativity, but quickly retreated when I realized I had to hold head upright or more than thirty seconds.

I realized I was becoming an annoying sick person when I looked around my room and questioned the arrival of aliens. You see I had about 50 half filled glasses of various liquids sitting here and there ala M. Knight Shyamalan’s “Signs.”

So today despite drugs and *new family trauma, I am here. I’m sedate, tranquilized, a little somber but I’m here.