I'll tell you about things that happen when you get sick.
It involves a lot of apologising for when you cough and splutter and a formidable section of lower intestine ends up draped over the left foot of the person you are talking to.
Initially you try something like, "Oh man that's a sick naked mole rat pelt you're sporting right there, how much did that baby set you back?" But soon enough, amidst the sweating, wheezing, and awkward darting eyes, you'll get caught out. (It's obvious this friend would never be able to afford that calibre of designer shoes anyhow)
YOUR FRIEND CAN'T AFFORD THIS SHIT DICKHEAD
Only none of that happened, because you weren't talking to anyone at all, you spent the day mostly in your room masturbating so that you could breathe properly (probably). The only instance that is even remotely close to what I just described was when you coughed and a bit of phlegm landed on the ground; you had to try and prevent your dog/cat/sibling/significant other from ravenously licking it off the floor, which was challenging when considering your weakened state, and the general consensus that your phlegm is possibly the most delicious thing on the earth.
By the end of the day you will have propelled nearly five times your weight in mucus, over your face, furniture, pets, the mouths of the hungry children that always seem to hang around your window for some reason, the postman, your favourite birthday card, your computer monitor, a pendant you don't remember owning, your prized ski mask, under your sheets, on the CD that played when you lost your virginity, the ceiling, a cardboard box you used to keep old photographs and pieces of hair in, on the poster you nicked from school, and on page 349 of Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood where the snot nearly perfectly frames the following passage, like a transparent gelatinous highlighter has passed over the print:
"Tell me about yourself," Midori said.
"What about me?"
"Hmm, I don't know, what do you hate?"
"Chicken and VD and barbers who talk too much."
"What else?"
"Lonely April nights and lacy telephone covers."
"What else?"
I shook my head. "I can't think of anything el
EXPECT THIS TO HAPPEN ON A FREQUENT BASIS; APPROX. EVERY 2-5 MIN.
Your throat will hurt so bad that you'll dig your fingernails into your tonsils and by the end of the day they'll be fleshy pink crater-covered asteroids stuck to the sides of your mouth and your fingernails will smell pretty bad.
You will not feel accomplished in any way, even if you finish all the television series you've been putting off, study so diligently that you're pretty much set for the next year or so, arrange the filth in your room into something barely manageable, or negate the need for social contact outside of your room due to your recently crafted life-size sculptures of all of your dearest friends (tissues and nail clippings held together by mucus, love, phlegm, spit and heartfelt memories).
IN CONCLUSION BEING SICK IS NOT EVEN THAT SICK AND I WISH SOMEONE WOULD NURSE ME AND GIVE ME ALL OF THE ATTENTION I DESERVE AND I HOPE THAT BY SHOUTING LOUD ENOUGH WITHOUT STOPPING SOMEONE ANYONE WILL NOTICE WHEN I STOP BREA
