Sicker

As I said, I was sick all weekend and couldn't blog.

Couldn't blog.

(Wouldn't blog? Hmmm...maybe. I do requests.)

But couldn't blog.

Could sleep, though. Slept well. And lots. With the cat.

(I have a cat.)

Slept well and long with the cat. But fevered. Lots of dreams. Dreamt about, like, being a teacher and scoring tests. Dreamt about, like, being someone watching the actor/comedian Kevin Nealon, and then being Kevin Nealon watching, like, Kevin Nealon, and then just being Kevin Nealon.

Dreamt about, like, being crushed under the weight of dirt poured out of the back of a dirt-hauling truck. Being a flower, and being crushed under the weight of dirt poured out of the back of a dirt-hauling truck. Yeah.

But, also, the cat was there. Curled up against the fever-burning body. The sweating, shirtless, fever-burning body. (Don't fucking judge me...it was hot, so I was fucking shirtless! So fucking what?)

And so. (Sorry.) And so.

So I woke up after dreams and sweating. Cat curled against me. I woke up. He woke up. I stirred. He got up and stretched. I stretched and moved. He jumped down and ran off.

I woke up. Looked down. Cat gone. Sweat on chest. Cat hair on chest.

I woke up and had a manly, '70s-manly head of chest hair made of cat sheddings. In a big spot centered on my chest.

Getting sick made a man of me, baby.

(Baby.)

So. Yeah. Sick. Staring at self in mirror. With manly chest of faux chest hair. Of cat chest hair. Couldn't blog. Who could? Who would?

Really?

***

From comments, a recipe to cure sickness from Dr. John Synco (M.D. or possibly Witch Doctor or something):

"Half water, half hydrogen peroxide then gargle. Don't swallow. Never mind. Whiskey. Float cube of ice in Jameson or Elijah Craig. Gargle. Swallow. Repeat."

Did my damnedest, brother. Think the cloves got me.