My Chronicling Of An Illness

I'm not sure where I got it. But on Thursday, I contracted a sore throat that felt vaguely the same way it would to swallow a vial of hydrochloric acid, the glass then dissolving into the acid as the acid ate away the glass, every time I swallowed. It was a Saint Valentine's Day massacre, throat-wise. Since I have the immune system of a young pony, I knew that the sore throat would evolve.

And evolve it did. The next day, I was coughing with more and more intensity. Dobbl's mother was very worried about me, as I lay wheezing on their couch, watching a re-run of House. By Saturday, I couldn't be sure if I'd make it out to The Boyfriend's DJing gig.

Though the coughing had resolved itself, my face was in the grasp of many sneezing. I would sneeze in a bout of four violent, messy sneezes, and then I wouldn't sneeze again until ten or so minutes later, when another bout would strike. I was sneezing so often that my powers of speech had degraded to powers of sounding-like-I-was-orgasming.

So I told The Boyfriend that I would probably not be at his DJing gig, just because the constant sneezing would completely interrupt his DJing. Plus, I'd have made a mess everywhere. But I, being a good girlfriend, put my red dress on, and did up my ugly mug, and I went to that show. The Boyfriend did a grand job spinning the disks and mpegs. And he made the nose-pain worth it, by dancing his hands all over my red-lycra body while Digital Lov beeped and tissed.

And then Sunday rolled around. I couldn't tell if I was going to throw up, or if I was hungry. But I was afraid to eat in case I was going to throw up. I couldn't throw up, of course, because I hadn't eaten anything. My mother was convinced that I needed to eat. She didn't exactly understand that it was because of eating that I felt dumpy. [I lied. I had a bowl of Japanese rice soup, which shouldn't have done anything at all.] So I laid down on my floor, with my lappy, Mathilde, at my side. Miserably, I watched streaming videos.

The feeling in my stomach only got worse until, around ten or nine o'clock, I had to roll over and just hope for death to take me. I have a pathological fear of vomit. There I was, praying that I would die, a better fate than kneeling at the toilet.

My mother came in, picked me up, and took me to my bed. She brought in my contact case for me to take the lenses out. I watched her walk out the door before I blacked out, and came to about an hour later, when she came home. It was horrible.

Today, I'm feeling alright. I've mostly just felt hot all day, no matter how many layers I am or am not wearing. I've been watching Project Runway and other shows on the TV, and then come back in here to watch more streaming videos. I thank the Lord Judas Priest that today was a holiday, because I wouldn't have wanted to go to school. And of course, I would have had to. Stress is a very bad medicine, I've come to realize. I'm just glad I'm better now. Because the isolation that was last night tore my heart out. I looked into the looking glass and saw that the only boy I wanted by my side lives a million miles, and a synthetic connection, away.