Ugh.

So, I’m sick again. Anyone have an ice cream sandwich? Ah, a subtle reference to a past post. How “Lost” of me.

I was sick in October, and that was a game changer. First time being sick alone and all. This time’s different though. I know how to operate. I know what to stock up on. I know what curled up position on the bed shields the light the best. That said, it still sucks. It drains my energy into a black hole. Whatever creativity I had been cultivating is now roadkill, crushed by the Hummer of flu season. I even hate the word. Flu. It looks gross. I mean, it ends with a u. Not many nice things end with a u.

But regardless, I have it. Sandwiches don’t taste as crisp as they used to, orange juice stings the throat, and all things salty are chapping my lips like never before. Truly a nightmare for your typical North American student.

The problem is that I’d figured out my routine before this. I’d worked out the algorithm of my schedule. And I apologize to all who actually know what algorithms are. Anyways, second term was my term of organization, my term of prosper and wisdom. It was my term to scale a large mountain with my schedule in hand, fighting off wolves like Liam Neeson, to get to the top where a wise master (I imagine Morgan Freeman) looks at how I’ve organized my term is, and says,

“Not bad.”

But it would sound way cooler, because he’s Morgan Freeman, and it’s on top of a mountain and all. But this sickness, it’s like Gollum, trying to deceive and defeat me at every corner. I had it all laid out, all bundled into a precious plan. And now my sickness wants the precious.

Gladly I’ve been here long enough to know the procedure. Drink some Vitamin Water, take some Tylenol, and shower every day. That’s really all you can do. I mean, we could eradicate all sickness through time travel, but I feel that’s better suited for a Will Smith movie.

What sucks is that my room looked fairly decent before I got sick. Housework (or as I shall call it in residence, roomwork) is the first to go when you get sick. So now I have sandwich wrappings lying on my desk, mocking me as I lie in bed, too incapacitated and unmotivated to dispose of its pompous presence.

So I’ll lie here, waiting out this sickness like Tom Waits, or weightlifters, or Weight Watchers, or whatever clever pun strikes your fancy. And I’ll be thinking the one word that defines all sickness,

Ugh.