it’s flu season: a manifesto.

It’s flu season, motherfuckers, and I am here to tell you that I am beating the shit out of this thing. I have consumed nine lemons in four days, sliced in wedges and poured into endless cups of Sinus Soother tea. I have stared pity in the face, and it looks like the busboy at Pho Ha who knows my takeout order before I even make it to the counter. I am so fucking hydrated my pee might as well be invisible. Hear that, RNA virus? I’m coming for you. Just you wait.

Flu does things to a girl, you see. Things I’m not proud of. Things like watching 1999’s “The Muse,” starring Albert Brooks, just because it was next on Netflix and I was too weak to reach the remote. Things like wearing pajamas in public, shuffling slowly towards the pharmacy, my winter coat concealing my lack of a bra, because I can’t seem to find a service that will deliver cough drops and Nyquil to my door.

I dimly remember a time when I lived a full and active life. I made endless lists of things to do, and went about the business of crossing them off. It seems so distant now, so trivial, so foolhardy. I was once a person who once routinely worked fourteen-hour days, and enjoyed it. Let me tell you, I just spent two hours accomplishing the following: 1) making soup, 2) eating it. And then took I a nap to reward myself for a job well done. I tried to answer the phone this morning and was startled to hear Tom Waits’ voice where mine should have been. Damn it, influenza. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

But I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to let this keep me down.  I refuse to miss another day of work. I refuse to sleep through one more shitty movie. I am a woman of strength and dignity. I will not let that be taken from me.

I may be wearing leggings instead of pants. I may be unable to hear properly. I may smell strongly of garlic and menthol, and I may have to wash all the blankets in the house. But I will prevail.

Rise up, sufferers of the world. Rise up and tell the world you’re a survivor. Rise up and say, no more, no more. Rise up, ye bedridden, ye couchridden, ye fellow snot-nosed, red-eyed, sore-limbed warriors. Rise up and give ‘em hell.

And then collapse back on the couch and sleep for a day or so, after making a mental note to get the damn shot next year. Because holy hell, that was fucking exhausting.

 

 

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16 thoughts on “it’s flu season: a manifesto.

  1. “because I can’t seem to find a service that will deliver cough drops and Nyquil to my door.”

    Amazon, honey. Amazon. At least for the cough drops.

    Feel better ❤

  2. sadly the laziness and moping about and watching whatever the hell’s at the top of the suggestions page on Netflix describes REGULAR me, not just sick me. sigh. But I have a stuffy nose and I sneeze a few times a day, so maybe I can use that as an excuse?

  3. Awww. The flu is horrible! Had it twice in my life. Got the flu shot ever since. Negotiating with your body as to how to get out of bed with the invisible Inquisition torture device that held your body in excruciating pain….Wishing you well soon so that you can back to your snarky self!

  4. Ah, sorry to hear you’re sick, K. I was just thinking I should stock up on canned juice and chicken soup. It’s apparently being a strong flu season. And you are absoutely right that any decent culture would arrange delivery of illness needs, whatever they might be.

    Good thing one can blog while housebound though, eh?

  5. What a beautiful ode to what I am just recovering from. The flu has really crushed my strong-feminist determinism and had turned me into a diseased whore that would’ve sucked any old dick for Nyquil and a hot bath. A diseased whore without makeup and a giant knot/dreadlock developing on the upper-right of my scalp, fuzzy rainbow colored socks I received in a Xmas stocking… who would suck dick for flu relief. Good thing my boyfriend is an ethical man.

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