Friday, June 23, 2006
Misery, like booze, only without the removal of inhibition.
Seriously here. I'm talking strictly about the various and sundry forms of physiological misery and for now I'll just restrict myself to the viral and microbial kinds.

In fact, I'll pretty much just stick to our dear old friend, influenza.

Influenza comes in as many a varied flavours as gin, vodka, and beer - put together. Sometimes it's just a fever, cough, and sore throat. Hell, sometimes it's just a tickle in the back of your throat. (Like mine.) I guess this is like the sake of flu season - so smooth you barely even realize you're carrying it.

Until Tuesday when it's actually painful, then it's more like the whiskey parts...

And, of course, by Tuesday night you're looking at a cocktail of the sore throat, and the rattling, semi-productive cough, and by that point you're nice and warm from the fever.

Wednesday, just like with booze, you wake up feeling like shit on a stick, slightly toasted on one side, nice and soggy on the other. So you call in sick to work, which is fine because the laryngitis makes you sound like Barry White, and sure enough as with booze, people want you to sing.

"Oooh I, I can't get enough of this flu, baby."

So you spend Wednesday with a red nose, poor judgement, suck at poker, and thanks to the god-awful smell you're giving off from being ill and not having bathed in a day or so now, no one wants to be around you who isn't similarly impaired. Tylenol? Yeah, keep wishing.

Thursday, no better really, because as much as you tried to leave that influenza bottle on the table, it called and you answered. Now your nose is acting up, as you promised yourself you weren't going to drink any of that sore-throat stuff anymore, but hey - a little sinus pressure never hurt anyone right?

The key word there was 'a little.' The amount of sinus pressure (which I guess is like Tequilla) you drank would kill a horse, so now your head is pounding and the thought of even calling work - let alone answering the phone when they call you - is just not gonna happen.

So Friday morning, when you absolutely have to be at work (because one of your favorite co-workers is going away, forever) you still feel like crap, but do your best to clean up for everyone. You've got a new lavender tie, and nice, crisp white shirt, and you think you look fine. Except that you sound like Barry White's little brother, and sniffle like a coke fiend. Real hit with the ladies. Everyone who sees you knows you've been into the flu and they react like you'll get it on them.

The tab comes out to about the same too, a couple of days of missed work seems to be roughly equal to what a true boozer can blow at a bar in that same timeframe.

So the next time you want to get nice and trashed? Just go get coughed on. The lines are shorter, and there's no waking up anywhere but your own bed. Unless you're a champ, and wind up in the hospital.
Posted by William C. Walker at 6/23/2006 05:34:00 PM ::

2 Comments:

Blogger Jess said...
Welcome! Glad to have you aboard! Great stuff for the first post. I have you set to pick Sunday's topic, and I added you to the links in the sidebar.
Saturday, June 24, 2006 1:06:00 AM  
Blogger Erica said...
There's a little icon in Skype that happens when you type (inlove) - it's a smiley with little floaty hearts all around it. It's freaking adorable, and it was how I felt when I heard (and saw) that you'd accepted the invitation to write with us.

Nice first piece. <3
Saturday, June 24, 2006 1:23:00 AM  

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