I've been playing that game with myself whereby I am clearly coming down with some form of illness, and yet I deny it to the bitter end. I have patches of inability to breathe fully and write it off as allergies bothering my asthma. I wake up all stuffed up, and again I just say allergies and walk away. I resist the urge to actually call myself sick and act upon that declaration as if this is in and of itself a sign of weakness, and acknowledgment that some virus or bacteria has gained some ground on its attack on my person.
Well, deny as I might, something has set up shop at the temple and is now shilling various forms of ick from its little booths inside me. It becomes hard to deny such things when you start your day by coughing up a small amphibian in the shower. Previously, I had thought such things were one of the many benefits of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, but since I gave up that charming habit a few years ago, one must face the reality of the situation, and that reality is that I'm sick.
Fortunately, there is a simple method of clearing the temple of these mucus vendors, a savior to throw over the tables and scare off the livestock in a fit of righteous anger. This morning, I brought down the big medicine chest, and ingested my salvation, a tremendous 12-hour Sudafed. Sweet, glorious Sudafed.
Now I'm not talking about that crap they shill on the shelves in the guise of Sudafed. No, I'm talking about the good stuff, the stuff they make you sign for. Oh sure, it ticks me off a little bit that the war on drugs (which I'm still hoping will be won by drugs) required making it a borderline crime possessing my good friend psuedoephedrine on the off chance that you're going to go home and produce meth out of it. I don't really get this, as I find it a perfectly pleasant experience as is, but since I've never tried meth, I defer judgment to those who enjoy it enough to blow their houses up for it. Must be a hell of a drug.
So now I'm sitting here, able to breathe again, headache abated for the time being. Sure, I'm enjoying a little Sudafed head along with it, but what are you going to do? Better this than laying around in bed all day, right?
Well, okay no it's not, but I gots things to do.
Well, deny as I might, something has set up shop at the temple and is now shilling various forms of ick from its little booths inside me. It becomes hard to deny such things when you start your day by coughing up a small amphibian in the shower. Previously, I had thought such things were one of the many benefits of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, but since I gave up that charming habit a few years ago, one must face the reality of the situation, and that reality is that I'm sick.
Fortunately, there is a simple method of clearing the temple of these mucus vendors, a savior to throw over the tables and scare off the livestock in a fit of righteous anger. This morning, I brought down the big medicine chest, and ingested my salvation, a tremendous 12-hour Sudafed. Sweet, glorious Sudafed.
Now I'm not talking about that crap they shill on the shelves in the guise of Sudafed. No, I'm talking about the good stuff, the stuff they make you sign for. Oh sure, it ticks me off a little bit that the war on drugs (which I'm still hoping will be won by drugs) required making it a borderline crime possessing my good friend psuedoephedrine on the off chance that you're going to go home and produce meth out of it. I don't really get this, as I find it a perfectly pleasant experience as is, but since I've never tried meth, I defer judgment to those who enjoy it enough to blow their houses up for it. Must be a hell of a drug.
So now I'm sitting here, able to breathe again, headache abated for the time being. Sure, I'm enjoying a little Sudafed head along with it, but what are you going to do? Better this than laying around in bed all day, right?
Well, okay no it's not, but I gots things to do.
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