Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Tales from quarantine

I suppose it was silly wishful thinking of me to assume I could stay healthy for an entire two-month stretch. Actually, I think I did, technically. Anyway, who cares... I'm sick now.

It's inevitable, I've come to realize. I have to get sick at least once every two months or so, or the apocalypse may very well take place. Suffice it to say that I'm doing my best to ward off the impending bronchitis (I guess we can safely deem it to be "chronic"), and that the bronchitis is somehow still winning. Mind you, I'm doing much better than usual... this is the end of day three of the battle, and I'm still able to speak perfectly well. Typically, my coughing is so raucous that I'm pitifully mute by this point in the dance. My seemingly effective arsenal this time around consists of more water than any human should ever have to drink (I think I'm at about 10 liters a day), an assortment of often strange-tasting lemon-based hot teas, vitamin C by way of orange juice and more tea, and lying around on the Red Destiny while doing my best impression of a throw pillow. I've been abiding by a self-imposed quarantine for the entirety of the day, and I've managed to be completely worthless in the process. This had better pay off, because I'm about to go nuts... that's all I'm saying.

I think I've pinpointed the culprit who bestowed me with this little gift of gross. There was a girl at choir on Saturday sitting next to me with what sounded like an innocent little cough, nothing serious or fear-provoking. Of course, a little cough gets into my system and has a field day, then gets big and strong and becomes a nice, thriving bronchial infection in record time. I'm told it's due in part to my not having a thyroid, another part to having a moronic pituitary gland, and another part to good bloody luck. I tell ya... cancer can be damn silly. Screw it. I don't care what anybody says; I'm blaming John. Let's face it... I haven't blamed him for anything in a while. We had a game in the early days of knowing one another where we'd blame each other for everything imaginable. This, of course, was our sick idea of fun, and I think it still is. So yeah, John... I blame you for this one. If I get another wave in the next couple of months (as I'm bound to), I'll consider blaming Chuck for that one, but you're the lucky winner on this round. As for the girl who's responsible for handing off the precious little cough-baton, don't worry. There's plenty of time left in the semester, and I know where to find her. Oh, yeah. It's like that.

I can't say I was entirely worthless duing my quarantine. I did a little reading for class, I worked on my music, and I watched a couple of movies I've been meaning to make time for. I suppose that now would be a good time to come clean and confess that one of the movies I watched (willingly, I have to add) was Hustle and Flow. The verdict? It's really quite good. Granted, it's not for some, given the fact that it's about a pimp in the south and his quest for rap stardom. To be honest, I wouldn't ordinarily say that it's for me, either, given that description. Still, I have to recommend it to those who can handle plenty of bad language, a bit of violence, the often conscience-enervating pimp/ho dynamic, and, of course, rap music. A bunch of my friends and I have been making fun of this movie ever since we heard about it months ago, and now I have to say that, despite the fun I've had mocking the premise and the genre, the movie's worth a watch, and I'll likely watch it again. I mean, I'll still make fun of it, as is my duty, but I'll have to do it affectionately from now on. It'll be harsh, ridiculing affection, but the affection will be there nonetheless.

I've also spent the day learning something I could very happily have gone the rest of my life without knowing: female cats in heat are annoying as all blue hell. Jane's cat, Trouble, is good and heated up at the moment, and seems to want the entire world to know all about it. She mews incessantly, and, seemingly, with great fervor and purpose. She even gets multi-syllabic from time to time, which can get a little creepy. I will say this for the experience, though... she's morphed into a very sweet cat. She no longer tries to bite and claw at anyone, nor does she run and cower when you come toward her. In fact, she comes running when you call, and she can't get enough of tactile affection. She seems to preffer one sort in particular, which can get a little strange if you think about it too much... she loves it when you pat her on the rump. Hard. And I mean hard. Basically, she puts her ass in your face until you wack her on it about thirty or forty times as forcefully as you can without outright slapping the poor beast. After a bit of that, she calms down a little, but it takes some serious arm work to placate her. Frankly, I came to realize after about the third or fourth time of doing this that I was... well... you know... helping the cat out, as it were. That's what I mean about it getting sort of weird if you give it too much thought. Naturally, I seem to have done just that. Now, when Trouble swaggers over to me, mewing like mad, I start feeling violated and dirty. Sad, I know... so I'm blaming the bronchitis. And John. And okay, I'll blame Chuck, too. Fair's fair.


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