I’ve spent the past ten days, laid out with pneumonia. I don’t recall ever having it before, but I now understand how much it really sucks. I had to have chest x-rays taken and I’ve been through two rounds of antibiotics, having not responded to the first. I’ve had a fever of 101-102 degrees consistently for days in a row. I coughed so much and so hard that I pulled a bunch of muscles in my lower abdomen, rendering me a quite brittle. I’ve never before considered the possibility of having to be admitted into a hospital to be a good thing. Luckily, things didn’t have to go that far as it seems I’ve responded to these new pills (the “Bazooka Bullet of Antibiotics”, according to my doctor) and I’m now very grateful to be back at work, aggressively sliding back into the normal shit I do. I’m still coughing up sludge, but there’s no fever and nothing obstructive enough to prevent me from at least getting into the office.

Aside from two absolutely horrible trips into Manhattan to see my doctor (fever sweats on a subway platform on a 92 degree day…holy…fucking…shit), I didn’t step outside my apartment and rarely left my bed. If it wasn’t for my laptop, Netflix and World of Warcraft, I would have gone shit-nuts insane. I rose two levels (I’m now a level 43 Druid, thank you very much) and watched an impressive amount of Asian horror flicks. In between, I lay listlessly in bed, at times not sure if I was awake or asleep. Throughout the entire ordeal, I perspired like a pig.

About four months ago, when my two cats first came home from the city animal shelter, both of the fuzzy little fuckers became sick, sneezing and coughing up shit everywhere. When a veterinarian looked them over, he pronounced them as both having the feline herpes virus , assured me that they would both be fine and proscribed each a bottle of antibiotics.

Now before you start making assumptions that could get me arrested or my little buddies taken away, I had nothing to do with this infection. I used a condom every single time, I swear.

Just kidding…kinda.

When the vet told me this, naturally I began to make excuses about age of consent, my lost childhood and the fact that I was the product of a broken home, etc. The doctor assured me that the virus doesn’t affect humans and that a good 95% of shelter cats carry it, some never exhibiting any symptoms. Outbreaks are usually brought on by stress, such as a new cat in the mix, a change of address, getting molested by their owners (once again…kidding) or any other big change that alters their normal routines.

I noted all this information, went home, squirted some antibiotics down their throats and all was well until about a week ago when Gracie, the six year-old started spewing hunks of phlegm left and right, sitting around the apartment, loudly wheezing and chugging up great clots of lung butter. At times, I found myself tempted to take a pipe cleaner to her. It was pretty disgusting. I mean, who wants to get it on with a overactive walking lung booger? Even some Serious Barry White can’t remedy that one…d’oh, still kidding there, put the phone down.

A second trip to the vet found her to be in the throes of a pretty aggressive outbreak. The vet actually was able to open her mouth and show me a real, live herpes sore. There was no denying it. My fuzzy little buddy was a dirty little whore. I had been wondering what all those midnight phone calls and litter boxes stinking of Old Spice were about. I was about to demand a paternity test and haul her ass onto Springer but the doc managed to calm me down. He proscribed some more antibiotics along with daily doses of vitamins to bolster her immune system, seeing as she seems to be more susceptible to outbreaks, likely due to her age.

So, I’m back to holding her down while I squirt things down her throat. Read into that one all you want, I’m innocent, I swear.

I’m not sure what caused it, but I have been enjoying what I suspect is some choice, plump and deliciously mild food poisoning. Sitting here at my computer in a death sweat, drinking some mad concoction that’s supposed to keep me from redecorating my home in shades of puke, I wonder if tonight I will see a few hours of respite from the nausea gnomes and catch at least a few hours of sleep, free from the tossing, grumbling and weak promises to god to never eat finger food at a public event ever again.

Still, when one is down in the doldrums of a general malaise, there’s always something to perk up about. Words like ‘barfalicious’, ‘barftastic’, ’spewmongous’ and ‘pukeriffic’ bring a weak grim to my pasty mug. Daydreams of massive projectile vomiting on subway passengers, knocking newspapers, babies and hairpieces to and fro with a massive, multicolor blast of barfy righteousness elicits a slight giggle as well.

I would trade all this highbrow, self-perpetuated entertainment for a stomach that would behave in a second, of course. But as it stands, I feel like ass. Fuck that, I feel like some old dead guys ass, stuffed with a dead ferret. I could make comparisons between my current condition and all sorts of asses, alive, dead, stuffed or otherwise, but I think I’ve worked that angle to death in previous posts. I just want my stomach back.

Have I offended the barf god? Do I need to slay a goat at the temple of hurl? Seriously, give me a sign and as long as it doesn’t entail jumping-jacks, licking ashtrays or gargling on cockroaches, I’ll do it.