Further to my guide to Getting Sick.
Wake up and feel as if you've gotten a sword to the head and face, a la Tyrion Lannister at Blackwater Bay. You can't breathe. You can't swallow. Your alarm goes off. It's 7:30am. Consider the likelihood of your being able to go to work. Audibly moan. "FUUUCK."
Sit up. As you sit up, a stream of snot literally flows out of your nose. Literally. It pours out, and lands on the bed. There's a puddle of snot on the bed. Groan. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK."
Stagger to the bathroom. Have a shower. Lean your head against the wall. "FUUUUUUUUCK." Feel like this might be worse than all hangovers you've ever experienced combined. Maybe? But come on, this is no hangover. This is just another, entirely different kind of immense pain, not the result of outside forces. Wonder if a whole lot of bacon and a sneaky chunder might help. Probably not. You can never make yourself chunder anyway. And this isn't chunder-ville. This is you being Legitimately Unwell. Look at yourself in the mirror. Decide calling for an old priest and a young priest is probably the best option. You need a fucking exorcism.
Picture your head spinning around while you masturbate with a crucifix and Max von Sydow watches. Giggle hysterically at the depraved mental image, then begin coughing uncontrollably. Fuuuuck.
Stagger to your room and get half-dressed. Decide you're going to try and go to work. Screw it, you can make it to work. And work all day. Down a cup of lemsip (the strong stuff), a berocca, all the different types of cold and flu tablets you can find, every assorted vitamin you can find, eat two oranges, and take a liver detox tablet for good measure, then drink many glasses of water. Hydration, bitches. Unfortunately, all that results in is a desperate need to pee. The fluorescent kind of pee.
Go back to bed.
Have ridiculous, fever-addled dreams. Wake up. Use toilet paper to blow your nose because you don't have any tissues. Curse the fact that you didn't buy the nice toilet paper. There's snot on the pillow. Moan. Wonder if you should have a whole lot of cheese before going to sleep again. CHEESE DREAMS, MEET FEVER DREAMS. Remember you have no cheese. Fuck. Wish your mum was here to make you some soup, or a cup of tea, or to hear you moan about how shitty everything is. Or bring you cheese. Try to go back to sleep, but your face hurts too much to sleep. Your face hurts too much. Your eye sockets, your mouth, your nose.
Declare "MY FACE HURTS" to your ceiling while listening to your creepy neighbour yell indecipherable things at the universe. Look around and ponder the miraculous way a room, once miraculously clean, instantly becomes a bomb site once the owner becomes ill. This room was goddamn TIDY before the Great Illness of 2013. Maybe this is what it's like to be crazy shut-in, lying amidst a grotesque mess of clothes and used tissues (toilet paper), wearing the same clothes you were wearing two days ago. Maybe you should buy some cats? Listen to the same Barry White song for about half an hour on repeat. Disco fucking rules.
Realise you got a message from a friend. It asks, "Get lucky with any musos in Apollo Bay bro?!" Hardly. If you've done this correctly, the only thing you will have picked up is a FUCKING DOSE OF EVERYTHING HURTING.
|How attractive you will be at this stage.|
Thoughts don't quite make sense. Almost leave the house. Don't. Go into the kitchen and stare at the cupboard for a while. Think about lunch, then decide to drink more Lemsip. Wish your dog was here. He wouldn't care about how repulsive you are, all spluttering phlegm and snot-faced illness.
Potter around the house like a senile old man. Make a Spotify playlist called "Sickness Jamz". Groan. Watch about five episodes of My So-Called Life. Decide your snot is very angsty now. Decide Claire Danes is very good at crying. Wonder if Angela ever realised how utterly normal and un-special she is. Decide you've been awake too long. Sleep until it's dark. Wake up - your housemates are home.
Stagger into the living room, looking like an extra from The Walking Dead.
"Oh man, you are home!"
"Euurgh. Yeah. I've been here all day. COUGHCOUGH BLEURGHSOFDLSKGBSDUIHFDSKLJ."
Your housemate will definitely take several steps back. "Dude. You're really fucking sick."
Groan and retreat back to your hovel of illness.
|Stay the fuck back bro.|
Put pawpaw ointment on your nose, and ingest your body weight in cold and flu tablets. Decide you should wash your hair. Know you won't. Lie in bed and listen to the myriad wonderful noises that emanate from your person every time you breathe. Your chest and nostrils are making sweet, sweet, guttural and disgusting music together. Spend about ten minutes laughing and wheezing at this comment on Reddit. If nothing else, this little episode has given you a glimpse into a #foreveralone future. Decide it isn't so bad, if you take out the whole wanting-to-die thing. Watch JFK, while nearly coughing up a lung. Make sure not to actually cough up a lung however - a whole lot of phlegm is much more manageable.
Stare at Kevin Costner talking to Donald Sutherland. None of their words make sense and your nose has been ravaged in a decidedly BAD way. Decide you're going to detox. Vow to go for a run every day, and eat a healthy amount of greens. No more booze. You'll drink a litre of water and a cup of dandelion tea every day. You'll enjoy the sunshine. Decide to forever be healthy.
If you had the strength you'd flip a table in rage. But you don't, so you whimper a little and watch the rest of JFK in bed with a roll of toilet paper next to your face.