I’m as sick as a dog, man. I look like Snuffal-fucking-uffagus. Or Jeff Goldblum in The Fly – my body slowly disintegrating as I transform from human to insect.
(Pause for trauma and flashback to: the fingernail scene. Ewww.)
I suppose this makes you Geena Davis, the witness to my festy – someone who moderately cares but will ultimately leave me, if my appendages don’t stop falling off.
Before you go, let me take a moment to depict just how disgusting I’ve become. I have Britney Spears neck because my glands are so swollen (seriously, that girl looks like a pro-wrestler, it’s as thick as her head) and my sinuses are now manic depressive, one minute flowing like Dylan lyrics and the next, becoming more clogged than a Dutch folk dance.
Such was my desperation, last night I googled home remedies and the recommendation came back: squeeze the ju-ice (to be said like Pauly Shore) of a spring onion into thy nasal cavity. Job done. Fortuitous then, that I didn’t have any spring onions in the house.
In the space of a day, societal conventions have all but broken down. I’ve become a Gollum cave-dwelling creature who cowers from the light through yonder window break and calls the delivery boy “precious”. Occasionally, I’ll limp into the next room to make tea, leaving a trail of used tissues in my wake (like a festy mucus-Gretel marking the path back to good health).
Any semblance of my former self was irrevocably lost early this morning (during a barrage of twitter nightmares) and I now resemble my hermit uncle living amidst piled dishes, tissues and discarded clothes (though at least I have floorboards, yo).
How did it take only 24 hours to reach this level of debauchery? Is that all the time it takes to become culturally homeless?