The Disease that Is Me

I feel like I should be poured out of a bad Rob Zombie film right now.

Tomorrow will mark one week of pure, unadulterated illness which deems itself unlikely to leave anytime soon.

In simple speak, I think I’m fucking dying.

I’ve had bronchitis in the past, which basically means any and every time I get some kind of respiratory illness I’ll have a lingering, unforgivable cough and infection. Pretty much.

But do I get a day of peace? No. Why? Because I just had to get sick near the end of the semester when I have a documentary to edit, a small village of articles to finish, and a happy plethora of other class projects to scribble up.

Fuck that’s right. I have two comics to finish. Gotdangit.

Last night, while editing the aforementioned documentary, I gained a bloody cough on top of the all-day hacking spree. Also I had two fairly serious nosebleeds. I shit you not when I say I spent a decent chunk of editing with my head cocked back and a blood-soaked snot rag pressed against my right nostril. Bloody coughs were daintily dispersed throughout.

Today, again during editing, I blew my nose and what appeared in my tissue can only be described as a rainbow medley of melted skittles.

That’s the stuff of unicorns right there.

Soon after, I broke into a sweat from a hot minute of pained hacking.

Phlegm fetuses continue to birth themselves from my lungs.

Enjoy your lunch this Tuesday while I continue to accidentally suck down the aged, slightly fermented chunks of mucus that launch straight onto my tongue.


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