I am sick.
My family doesn’t believe in doctors, mostly on account of the fact that they cost money and we used to be really poor and now we’re average mid-level poor. And I don’t really believe in doctors either, because two years ago, I had to do a walk-in at a hospital because I was a.) seeping pus from my eyes (SEXY), b.) coughing up blood (not bloody mucus, blood. ALSO SEXY), c.) having like seven nosebleeds a day (WHAT’S SEXIER THAN THAT?), and d.) was basically just really fucking sick. Sounds awful, right? I mean, I never went to med school, but I’m pretty sure those aren’t the symptoms of good health. Long story short, he prescribed me allergy medicine. Soooo. Not really feeling the MDs.
But I’ve had a rattling, gravel in a blender-meets-Fran Drescher cough for over two weeks, not to mention a runny nose and a headache. And still, I’m like, fuck the doctor, whatever, I’ll ride it out. (Preferably with an adorable little pug to keep me company, like Marie/Kirsten here.)
BUT NOW MY SICKNESS IS COCKBLOCKING ME. And that, my friends, is unacceptable.
I’m just gonna do what I do best and overshare: I was trying to give a classy bathroom beej the other day (it was the Guy’s bathroom, not one at, like, TGI Friday’s, so don’t overreact) and I had to keep stopping to come up for air. It was like scuba-diving, but with dick. Seriously, though, nothing makes me feel worse than when the Guy is saying, “Don’t stop,” and I have to be all, “Holla, holla, breath break.” BUZZKILLINGTON.
Then shit got really real when me and the Guy were in the moment (e.g., getting some) and I started coughing so hard we had to stop.
I want THAT, not a box full of tissues. I think I’m a pretty easygoing person, but once you get between me and my getting mine, well, nyet. But, alas, I’m still sick. So I guess I’m going to curl up with my teddy bear and just cross my fingers that I at least dream something hot.
Oh, yeah, and Happy Turkey Day–all you betches better be thankful you’re still healthy enough to fuck.