Since I've been felled--FELLED!--by this illness, I've watched approximately 40 episodes of my Sex and the City. Not that I own the franchise to that show; if I did do you really think I'd be sitting around here talking to the likes of your impoverished ass?
I mean my box set of the show, is what I mean. Any time I drag myself up out the bed, I hobble to the couch and cover up in what at this point is a smallpox blanket that
Dear Ned, We should wash
and watch more of my show.
"I'm going to go upstairs and kill myself," Ned announced the other night, when he returned home from the gym to hear the familiar samba music that is the intro to my show. Which I own. I own a mansion und a yacht.
Even worse is when Ned deigns to sit with me and try to read while I'm watching. Twice he's looked up and said, "Oh my GOD, I know what's going to happen in this one. Not because I've seen it, but because you've recapped the plot for me. GodDAMMIT."
Then he threatens suicide again, or to go upstairs and look at porn, which is fine by me because Sex and the City is my porn.
Anyway, I've gone through the plots about Mr. Big, which I just mistyped Mr. Bug and slayed my own self much like Ned wants to do, and Aiden--who was robbed--and now I have all those boring years to get through till Alexandr Petrovsky, who was hot with his lack of letters, I don't care what you think. Self-centeredness is sexy.
Which brings me back to me and my cold, which is here, still, but I am on the mend. It was MORE than a cold, which is what my father always says, but really, it was. I was flat out dead for days, and Ned must be sick and tired of coming home to the Mucinex character every night.
Once maybe 10 years ago I had strep throat, which went away and came back. The second time was accompanied by a fungal infection, which all had to do with my idiot neighbor Rik and his pigeons, and anyway the point is I was sick for three weeks in a row. They were exactly, to the day, the very days Barry Gibb was in town doing an album and I was too ill to stalk him, which had been my plan.
Anyway, Marvin, who really was nice to me generally speaking, came home after like day 17 of said illness. "God," he said, "you look awful. Why don't you clean yourself up?"
You know those things people say that you'll never get over?
So the other night, when I was the Mucinex character, I thanked Ned for never telling me I needed to clean up. "Well, you're welcome. You're beautiful," lied Ned. "And, to be fair, you probably looked a lot worse then than you do now."
See. I can't even REWARD Ned with the Price is Right losing horn, so awful was that line. All I can do is sneeze near him.
Okay, I have to go. I worked from home today and am in the middle of something. I just took this time out to talk about really nothing.
dis hole post stoopit, mom.
