Ill
Feelin far from groovy
I thought I had escaped its clutches, but oh no, the winter cold caught me by my head and proceeded to fry and steam my body with uncommon wretchedness. It has been like this since Wednesday afternoon. I still have no sense of taste, sleep is a hellish ordeal, my chest now sounds like a smashed accordion and there are the on-off two-hour nosebleeds whenever my nostrils aren't doing impressions of slightly runny lahars. I hate those. Actually, I hate all those symptoms. They have even made me switch to Marlboro Menthols. I didn't even smoke a ciggy yesterday. Just imagine. A day without a cigarette. Me.
Therefore, there has been little time to celebrate our championship win in the Quiz League of London. It almost seems a lifetime ago. But the sickness has got me good and proper and messed with my perception of the relative dimensions of time. Darn TB. Wish I had that BCG now.
So you can sing: "We are the champions, my friend. Sing it from the chimney stacks and rooftops. But remember, to me victory is blessed relief, while defeat has the stronger, lasting taste of bitterness and agony. You always feel the latter more. That is all I have to say for the moment.
Now let me lie on my sick bed and watch even more episodes of The Wire. It's so good that I can feel the frigid breath of future cold turkey on my neck as I contemplate a time when I am unable to watch six episodes in a row. It is the glory of instant self-gratification that makes the internet so great. It is the avenue that reaches into every home, the always available supplier, the cat that has got out of the bag, the horse that has long since bolted. You can't put the genie back in its bottle, or lamp, or whatever. And it sure helps me in my state of permanent boredom. The boredom I blame on the mind saturation of media and popular culture. All thanks to the world wide web. It comes back in on itself. Has no beginning or end. And, man, this over the counter Benylin sure makes me dopey (5 per cent ethanol? Blimey). All I want to do is lie back and drift into a Keats state of mind. Nope. Must dash out more words before I capitulate to craven laziness again: "Oh what can ail me... my chest aches and a drowsy cough syrup assisted numbness doesn't really pain me that much". Too late.
I thought I had escaped its clutches, but oh no, the winter cold caught me by my head and proceeded to fry and steam my body with uncommon wretchedness. It has been like this since Wednesday afternoon. I still have no sense of taste, sleep is a hellish ordeal, my chest now sounds like a smashed accordion and there are the on-off two-hour nosebleeds whenever my nostrils aren't doing impressions of slightly runny lahars. I hate those. Actually, I hate all those symptoms. They have even made me switch to Marlboro Menthols. I didn't even smoke a ciggy yesterday. Just imagine. A day without a cigarette. Me.
Therefore, there has been little time to celebrate our championship win in the Quiz League of London. It almost seems a lifetime ago. But the sickness has got me good and proper and messed with my perception of the relative dimensions of time. Darn TB. Wish I had that BCG now.
So you can sing: "We are the champions, my friend. Sing it from the chimney stacks and rooftops. But remember, to me victory is blessed relief, while defeat has the stronger, lasting taste of bitterness and agony. You always feel the latter more. That is all I have to say for the moment.
Now let me lie on my sick bed and watch even more episodes of The Wire. It's so good that I can feel the frigid breath of future cold turkey on my neck as I contemplate a time when I am unable to watch six episodes in a row. It is the glory of instant self-gratification that makes the internet so great. It is the avenue that reaches into every home, the always available supplier, the cat that has got out of the bag, the horse that has long since bolted. You can't put the genie back in its bottle, or lamp, or whatever. And it sure helps me in my state of permanent boredom. The boredom I blame on the mind saturation of media and popular culture. All thanks to the world wide web. It comes back in on itself. Has no beginning or end. And, man, this over the counter Benylin sure makes me dopey (5 per cent ethanol? Blimey). All I want to do is lie back and drift into a Keats state of mind. Nope. Must dash out more words before I capitulate to craven laziness again: "Oh what can ail me... my chest aches and a drowsy cough syrup assisted numbness doesn't really pain me that much". Too late.
posted by That Quiz Guy at 2:05 PM
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