Of Absence

I don't know why I had sweet and sour pork delivered. It's not like I could taste it, not with this cold. Were I blindfolded, the dumplings I ate for breakfast could have been paper for all I knew (insert joke about my wife's cooking here). Starve a cold, or so the saying goes, but for me it's the opposite. My appetite is pretty much muted when I'm ill, but for whatever reason I inevitably gorge myself. If you're a doctor or a psychiatrist (yes, that's redundant in the latter's case; you know what I mean, Einstein), maybe you can tell me why that is.

Thankfully, no fever. But, god, do I have one heck of a head cold (and I'm constipated, and my raging libido seems to be under the weather as well). My nostrils are raw from tissue erosion. (And if we're being completely honest here, also from index finger, forearm, and T-shirt erosion. I am, admittedly, a savage.) I have a pressure headache from -- when I'm not wiping my nose or blowing its watery contents into sinks Bathroom and Kitchen -- sniffling all the time. My eyes are swollen and bloodshot, making me look like a Chinese drug addict. Every fifteen minutes or so, a great sneeze will wrack my skull.

This is Beverly clearly not my best day; and, actually, I sort of wish I did have a fever running, because when my temperature is high I have the most vivid dreams. (You'll have to take my word for it; I can explain how a quantum computer works in terms Layman and Technical, but, unless you live on Elm Street, it's impossible for me to make you understand just how profoundly gripping it is to hide from a ten-story-tall killer robot.) All I have now is this shitty head cold and sore teeth. I can't even watch TV because my vision is blurred from an exodus of salty water. I'm expecting my unaffected orifices to start leaking at any moment. (Snot from my ears would be pretty neat, actually, but not from my anus, nor from my urethra.)

It's almost four o'clock and I'm bored to shit. Taking the day off work is only fun if you're faking it. No word of a lie, I'd trade being at home sick with my busiest day at work in a heartbeat. Compared to this bitchwhore of a cold, my department manager -- a.k.a. the slimiest fuckstick to ever set a Hermes-clad foot inside Olsen Food & Beverage -- is as benevolent as my grandmother Ruth, may she rest in peace. I'd rather ride the metro at full capacity than jockey this sofa alone, because at least then I'd feel like a human being rather than some overgrown fetus.

My wife called a couple of minutes ago. She asked me how I was doing and I said sportingly, like a corgi on grass, and then I told her the truth. I'm playing volleyball against a team of devil worshippers is what I said. She works in publishing, so she appreciated the metaphor. Then she asked me what my plans for the rest of the evening were, and I said I might shoot myself like the protagonist of "A Perfect Day for Bananafish," in bed and with a gun. She didn't appreciate that reference because I tried to commit suicide on New Year's Eve of 2006, only then I used almost a full bottle of prescription pills instead of a gun.

I wish I had a gun.

That's morbid, I know. I don't have ALS; I'll get better. Hopefully when I wake up tomorrow it'll be the dawn of a newer, stronger Jimmy Marshall. Chalk up another win for Team Immune System, hoohaw! But fuck if I'm not in the greatest of moods as of this writing. I can't do anything save type an angry rant against an invisible enemy, and even then I have to keep stopping because my arms get paresthesia from holding my Blackberry over my horizontally lying sofa half-corpse.

Music. Music! Of course. That'll brighten my spirits, put some pep in my step. Elevation is a scientifically proven emotion (also a song written by Bono), and nothing makes me feel better than some arena rock. Sure! I feel better already. Foreigner will revive me like Benny Hinn makes cripples walk again.

I'm a few seconds into the opening piano chords of "Cold as Ice" when my cell phone murmurs its signal that I have a text message. It's my wife. "Baby, hows ur cold?" it reads. It'll be a lot better after this Sam Adam's and "Smokin," I'm tempted to reply, but I restrain the urge because Helen doesn't really go for honesty. I could compile a large volume of books based solely on the times I've told her how I feel and the subsequent looks of boredom she gives me in response, my words wasted like spermatozoa ejaculated onto a fertile woman's stomach. No, Helen likes me when I'm at my most basic of exposition. Descriptions such as good, very good, or bad and very bad are, to her, calling cards of my acquiescence vis a vis her limited imagination. It's a good thing she has great tits.

I am again low, my burgeoning enthusiasm crushed by the weight of innocent words, my sinuses, hitherto in stasis with my mood, reacting in harmony with its sudden swing. I am again a leaky faucet, and I want to hibernate beneath pillows and covers and like warmth-providing encasing, a plump cub sleeping in a den of radiant clouds of orange.

But first, a sandwich.