And not just my usual Monday-itis. I mean, for reals sick. These flu cooties are totally kicking my butt. And I can never remember if Mom told me to feed a fever and starve a cold, or vice versa? So I just cover all my bases and gorge them both.
|Feed a cold, a fever, a boredom, a thirst...Whatever. Just feed it.|
At first, a day off work is ok. I mean, you can stay in your jammies all day, watch DVDs, and throw out the handy "But I'm sick!" excuse every time somebody asks for something. Woo-hoo!
But then the next sick day comes, and the next, and the next, and it goes from Woo-hoo! to What-the-heck?! There's only so much lazy-palooza* I want to exhibit.
*lay-zee-puh-LOO-zuh: The act of being so lazy, you may as well be comatose. Ex: Not brushing your teeth for so many days, even the family dog (who ass-sniffs for recreation), can't stand the funk.
There's only so much liver damage I can handle with all these OTC meds I'm abusing, and only so many prank texts I can send from my deathbed, and only so many times I can call and beg my boss not to fire me.
You know I firmly believe the 3 very best cures to anything are: 1) Laughs, 2) Love and 3) Time. That's it.
Now, they don't always work right that minute (that's where good drugs come in handy), but I promise you, they all work. I'll demonstrate:
Disclaimer: I've never been to medical school, so I'm not a doctor, but when George Clooney was on "ER," I used to masturbate to his picture like twice a week, so I'm pretty qualified to dish on anatomy.
- Laughs. You should always try this one first, but I can't right now. My esophagus feels like I've deep-throated my nail file, so let's pass on this one for the time being.
- Love. I don't want to give anyone else my cooties, so I'll pass on this one also. (And despite my husband's argument that he's safe from my germs if I just bend over and use my pillow as a SARS mask, I'm still keeping my distance. Plus, he's never once jerked off to Clooney, so he's not reliable intel on medical matters like me.)
- Time. Ah, this one I can roll with. But how to make time not crawl by when you're ill?
I've gone through the offerings at RedBox, eaten everything in the house that wasn't expired, and surfed every corner of the internet, thanks to the Wi-Fi I stole from my neighbor. *looks around for ideas* So now what?
It just so happens that during my stolen internet time, I stumbled upon a flower. I fell in love with this flower, loveys. Not because I was delusional from all my meds. And not just because I'm a girl, and girls like flowers. It was because this flower was created by someone's hand, and is breathtakingly gorgeous. It's hard for me not to be jealous of such a God-given talent.
|That's pure talent. *bows down*|
Loveys, I want you to know that I have never had an art class, except the ones forced on us in school. I never even had a desire to draw. In fact, I think I've only watched that Afro-wearing white guy draw "happy little clouds" once in my whole life.
But when I recreated this artist's work, I realized that I too have been blessed with The Gift! *sniffle*
Please have tissues and smelling salts handy. And when your eyes fall upon my work, imagine heavenly choir sounds.
|I should probably go work for Disney or something.|
I know, I know. I'm wasting my time writing. I should really go into drawing.
|If you turn it sideways, it could just|
as easily become a napping gorilla. Genius!
Someone get Hallmark on the line!
|Self-taught coloring. I'm like the Bieber of crayons.|
Or maybe I'll do cartoons. The possibilities are endless really. No, wait. I've got it! I think I'll become the sketch artist for WANTED posters. Yes! Picture it:
This flu cootie is wanted for assault and battery on Helena's immune system.
The reward is knowing you did a good deed. Oh, and a cookie. I'll also give you a cookie.
Notice the artistry used in my colored pencils. Of course, I'm way skinny here, but that's just because the pencil takes off 10 pounds.
And yes, flu cooties DO have handle-bar mustaches. Duh. How else will you know they're evil? Well, there is one other way to tell...
The effing curly-toed shoes. Eww. Can I just tell you how much I loathe seeing a perfectly hot dude rocking these horrendous shoes? Please, somebody, anybody, make it stop! See how wrong it is?
|Friends don't let men wear curly-toed shoes.|
You may see this:
|No, no, no!|
No one, and I mean no one, should wear curly-toed shoes, unless their first name is Genie.
Or Wicked Witch.
(Or if you need to emergency-slalom away from a really crappy date.)
But that's it!
Seriously, who thinks these look good?
(I was going to use my newfound illustrator skills to draw these fugly shoes for you besties, but I wanted to show that they do exist in real life, and inform you that anyone caught wearing them should be strongly encouraged to burn them.)
Well, I've dished totally legit medical advice, taught valuable time-wasting techniques, and discovered my new talent. So I guess I'll sign off now, before the codeine cough syrup wears off and I realize the embarrassment I've caused myself here.