Plague
◊ OK, I take it back. I'm not better. Satan's pissed that I've been working hard and doing housework instead of killin' babies and he's struck me down with the plague.
I don't know what Dean did to deserve it, though, because he's got it, too. I'm betting I'm the one that gave him this murderous virus, so I've been force-feeding him cough drops and beating him about the head with the heel of my shoe significantly less than usual.
That's probably because of my own current feebleness, not my new, gentler nature. In addition to the lingering illness and raw throat, I'm on the rag and have vicious cramps. When I stand up, it feels like my guts are going to shoot right out of my abdomen in a torrent like the one that emptied out Johnny Depp in the first Nightmare on Elm Street.
I've also got this thin, gnawing hunger — nothing like "Man, I'm starving" when you realize you haven't eaten for six hours, but something that makes me taste what real hunger might feel like in a couple of days. If I could just stand the idea of eating food, I'd be all over some chicken soup.
Un-girly as it sounds, I'd rather still have the five or six pounds I've lost to this virus than be as miserable as I am now. And Dean's already practically a scarecrow — he's probably three meals away from disappearing completely.
So yeah, I won't be going anywhere today. But if someone wouldn't mind airlifting four tons of cherry-flavored cough drops to Dean's digs in San Jo, we'd be very grateful. We wouldn't be able to pay you in money or sex acts, but we'd be happy to wheeze our thanks.