So for the past two days I have been down with the flu. I loathe being ill. I’d rather get kicked in the stomach by a zebra, carrying a hippo on it’s back. I don’t know.. The point is, my inherent need to run a muck and harass others has been swiped from me. I get to watch 30-year old paint dry while I lay around all day and do NOTHING. Let me speak plainly. I’m a big ass baby when I don’t feel well. I’m dramatic. I’m Whiney. And for the sake of wondering, yes I DO, look great while torturing nearby family and friends, but let’s not focus on shallow quandaries. I’m literally too sick to move. Bones and muscles are achy. Like a grandma. I’m stuffed up. Like a plush teddy. I’m hot and sweaty. Like a whore in church. I’m cold and clammy. Like a grandma. I can’t find my temperature. Maybe I’m dead. I’m not hungry but I’m starving. Bi-polar hunger… Is that a thing? If I eat I will vomit. Bulimic bile of barfery. I don’t think that’s a thing. My ability to illicit feelings of disgust here are limitless. I know, attractive. Your welcome.
So here I am flipping through the hundreds of television channels with nothing really on tv to watch. Dr. Oz is really terrifying by the way. I don’t understand why each demonstration is played out in a melodrama. Poking holes into a makeshift stomach and pouring what is supposed to be food into it to show something about allergies. I’m not quite sure how the Oz-man got from holy tummy to allergies but then again, I fell asleep after my cheap order of wine from room service. When will I learn… When. Will. I. Learn. Hotels don’t offer great wines with their room service. In my hazy ordering session, I went dizzy with delight when I saw an alcohol selection to choose from. I spoke the words Cabernet Sauvignon… And a fermented catastrophe showed up at my door. With a twist off cap. If I had a food company, I’d pay Dr. Oz to convince you why you NEED my product too. Million dollar marketing idea. Just a thought. Some random guy on television spitting cockamamie ooze, is the only guy with the big magic noodle to fix America. Who do I make the check out to?
So in an attempt to kick this flu’s ass, I shower. Finally. If I try to sleep one more hour, or annoy any more friends… chances are I will be lonely permanently. Forcing me to buy an angry polar bear to submit them all into submission. There is no escaping our friendship. I have an angry polar bear to prove it. Oh and yes, you will put up with me when I am sick. Googling: how to buy polar bear… With anger issues… I get dressed and throw on some heels. Chip my toe polish. What the… Really?! Dab here. Dab there. Ah, bringing my sexy back never looked so good. Woo! Good thing I travel with nail polish, right?
I look hot again… Now to slap on the war paint. Can’t leave my room looking like a troll. Little blush. Some lip gloss. A last glance at the beautiful girl looking back at…. Aw, man. Troll. Puffy eyes. Grab the mascara. Glop. Glop. Glop. Nope. The heavier the smear on the eyeliner, the closer I get to my cousin, the raccoon. A raccoon with billowy eye bags. I need a cucumber. Get your mind out of my gutter. I’m going to slice it up and lay it on my eyes. Perverts. Drastic times call for drastic measures. Or a fairy godmother.either way, I need to rid myself of these hideous under eye circles. Stat. Bippity. Boppity. Boo.
One last gander at my image. Maybe the high heels are a bit much. Ho. Ok, just to double check, I reach into the armoire for my flats and somehow fall into the far depths of the tall dresser face first. This klutzy habit has to stop. But we all know it won’t. Wait until you see how I try to move doorways with my hips. The hallways never move and I get bruises; But, my body still doesn’t comprehend depth perception and the role it plays in relation to my curvaceous proximity. I carefully pick myself up, out, of the dresser and slip on the flats. Frumpy. Back to the heels. Ho. Yup. I need to do what it takes to disengage any admirers from the puffy eyes somehow… So hooker heels it is. No one will notice any coughing and hacking this evening with my six-inch foot sparklers lighting the way. Or my bulging eye sockets. Win-Win! Now, if only I can manage not to trip over my own two left feet…