Quarantine QT Pie

It’s official. I’m on my death bed.

Oh geez. 

I’ve been pronounced sick. Officially, by whom? Okay, not a doctor. I’m not a fan of those. Then who…. Oh, one of my friends. *slaps forehead. And I think I’m dying. You’re not dying.

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Okay, it’s a little post-karaoke, Irish pub, pre-wedding party people, sinus/head thing. What?

Damn Irish bastards. And that mango beer.

Rumor has it that you show symptoms of the cold you catch three days after the bug violates your system. Meaning? I don’t know how true this rings for ya’ll but this is what my mommy told me. *looks around for any mom’s listening

And since mom’s are ALWAYS right….

Therefore, this means, that it’s likely I caught this deadly flu during our singing disco night.

You wanna question momma? Go for it. I’m not going there. I imagine some typhoon from The Bible will come swoop my ass away if I Do it. So, by all means, agitate the universe. I’ll watch.

Fast forward to waking up on Monday with a tickle in my throat. Actually, more like a freaking cat had been clawing the inside of my throat like a scratching post. Eyes puffy. OH, and the feeling I was hit by a giant truck. Like, um, you know the ones they drive on military bases. A tank. Yup. Definitely a tank hit me. A tank filled with a gaggle of handsome men in uniform!

Focus. 

If you’ve been reading for a while, or you know me personally, you’ll notice I don’t often get sick. But, geezaloo, when I do! WHAM! It takes me out like a tranquilizer dart that’s just hit a raging rhinoceros in the African desert! Yeah, teeth and all. And the horn thingie too.

CUE AUSSIE ACCENTED NARRATION: *Kronkie! A sight we’ve nary seen, folks! Out here on the plain, it appears we’ve caught a glimpse of the horned-Rita-buffalo-rous. This majestic creature seems to be in a fit of psychotic looniness. Ladies and gents, she’s got the flu. Oh no, no… she’s spotted us. Move! Move! Move! Get the tranqs!

Um, wow.

I know! So vivid! And scary.

And dramatic.

Circling back. It’s now Thursday and I’ve been freaking useless for four days. I’m pacing my bedroom and have gone through my second box of tissues. 85 count. My bestie has literally chased me down the past two days -every four hours- with an over-the-counter medication cocktail that not only tastes horrific; but, literally makes me feel sicker than I already am. Oh, but then I pass out – and according to her – that’s the perk to the whole deal!

I barely take ibuprofen. Or eat real salad dressing.

So here I am. On a Thursday. Drugged up on a NyQuil and Mucinex aperitif. Swimming in a cough syrup-laden linen swamp. What? Oh, yes, I may have forgot to mention that my bed has become a breeding ground for spilled containers of medicinal beverages. Menthol aromas abound.

Shit. It’s been four hours.

CUE HANDSOME AUSSIE NARRATOR AGAIN: *Behind the bedpost of the four-poster bed, we see “the bestie” tracking the mysterious and ill, horned-Rita-buffalo-rous. With her tranquilizer weapon tablespoon of choice, she moves in on this beast with the grace of a gazelle.

“Hold her down! I’ve got the elixir on the spoon! Go, Go! Now!”

So traumatic. It wasn’t. 

Nah, it’s all good. She just poison me again. She didn’t poison you.

And then left me all alone. Again. OMG.

So lonely. Stop it. 

It’s… getting… dark…

ZZZzzz….

*Special thanks to bhcosmetics.com, heatandcool.com