Sick

04 of Feb, 2003

I’ve always been susceptible to colds, but this time I’m returning to the broths entirely. It sounds like a Tuvan throat singer in my right ear, especially when I move my head. It would almost be lyrical if not for the sound coming from my own throat, which is most like a basket of wire hangers upended into a wood chipper. So staying home is an imperative. Conduct experiments: see how long it’s possible to sleep on a futon without losing circulation in limbs. Cut own hair in mirror. Avoid blowing nose repeatedly by crafting nostril plugs out of aloe-infused tissue paper. On rolling a proper nostril plug, by me: tear tissue in half, then fold in half, turn, and fold in half again, then roll into nostril-caliber cylinder, rounding the jutting bits with the thumb. Never round with the index finger. The index finger doesn’t know from rounding. Divergence from the one true path will lead to thrombosis or asphyxiation. And always remember to remove nostril plugs before you answer the door.


Related Tales

» “What the Other Hand Is Doing” (26 of Apr, 2003)
» “Terminal II” (03 of Apr, 2003)
» “Terminal” (31 of Mar, 2003)








I’ve always been susceptible to colds, but this time I’m returning to the broths entirely. It sounds like a Tuvan throat singer in my right ear, especially when I move my head. It would almost be lyrical if not for the sound coming from my own throat, which is most like a basket of wire hangers upended into a wood…