License to Ill

Aw, man. I am sick. I am death wish sick. I am so sick I can't smoke. CAN'T SMOKE, PEOPLE. Smoking is all I have to live for!

And I know the exact fucker that did it, too. I was a t a party this weekend, and the boyfriend of the host had admired my alco-riffic drink, and, wanting to show off how hardcore and boozy I am, I offered him a sip. Only to find out later that he is now writhing in agony, as I am. Damn him and his love for my fruity beverage!

As I have stated before, I never get sick. Ricci, my roommate, has been sick four times this year, and each and every time I'm all, "oh, you poor thing", and all the while in my head I'm doing a little dance of joy, me and my efficient immune system, we shall never be stopped! But because I never get sick, when I do finally succumb to those little germ fuckwits, I get Reeeeeeeeeally Sick. Day one was just me wandering around aimlessly, dizzy and incoherent, vaguely aware of where I was and what I was doing. Day two I couldn't read or walk very well or do much of anything except watch "Lost" and babble randomly to Scrunchyface about what a bad boyfriend he is for not protecting me from viruses and... I think I said something about the history of the world? Like a brief overview? Something like, "...la la la, and then the rivers split into oceans and man walked upright I'm dizzzzzzzy..." Man. I am just useless when I'm like this. Thank God I'm not feverish, I would be outside wrapped up in a bedsheet trying to eat gravel.

One of the delightful side effects to being sicker then God is that you don't have to worry about tasting anything anymore. Because your senses, like the savvy creatures that they are, have fled your body, and are now hitchhiking their was to Tuscaloosa. My coffee? Tastes like warm water. My oj? Tastes like... cold water.

And yet my sense of pain is heightened! Isn't that nice? I can't smell that I've been lighting my own hand on fire instead of the cigarette, that I can't taste anyway, but hoo boy! I can sure feel it. Just like I can feel the small army of gnats that has stormed the beaches of my brain-meats and are setting up their miniature camp, so that they may intern my sinuses. Tiny hammers working day and night are the only things that drown out the incessant buzzing of their victory songs!

I WILL PAY YOU FIVE DOLLARS TO COME OVER TO MY HOUSE AND KILL ME. I'd do it myself, but I think I'm too weak to lift the gun.

Or we could just watch "Lost", and I'll let you pet my head and feed me tea. Wouldn't that be nice?