Monday, November 12, 2012

what doesn't kill ya, stinks.

How is it, that when we get sick, we smell like something died?

Seriously.  I can't stand myself right now.  If I had a hot tub, I'd jump in and make femme stew.

Well, maybe not.  I actually don't have the strength for more than sitting here on the La-Z-Boy in my pseudo solitary state.

I'm sure Papi can smell me from the couch while he sleeps off the Graveyard Coma.  That may account for the mumbling I don't understand.  "Maxc, mvrvfjfjlkhg! Kajlkhaoiudrknha!" could be translated to, "Please, stop the smell!  I can't take it!"

I'm sure the animals love it.  You know.  They like stinks.  Dogs roll around in miscellaneous odours they find in the grass, and the cats like to stink things up as fast as they can on any surface, especially beds.

Speaking of stinks, The Bastard Prince has a reeky, kitty poo box right behind the La-Z-Boy, which is beside his cat tree pedestal, which is crammed in front of the crates the Fuzzy Family will be in for their flight to the Dominican Republic, that are in the corner of Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

This placement is so that he can get into the biz box, work his magic turds out, then scoot out and up the tree faster than Psycho Kitty can get to him.  I can also protect him with a spray bottle as I lie here like death.

You see, this is because Psycho Kitty has decided that ALL the stink boxes are HIS and he will protect HIS property to the death.

So, there's more than just my putrid stench that emanates, as I listen to The Bastard Prince scratch at the sides of his very own fetid bin.

I'm just too weak to go mining for gold in the stink box.

I also don't feel like getting into the shower.  I don't have the strength to get up, never mind the energy to de-stink-ify myself.

I'm very grateful for Papi, who was sweet enough to go buy me a soy latte.

When I slithered out of bed at a weak noon hour, I asked him to make me a coffee so I didn't have to suffer a caffeine headache on top of a flu.

He's always too uncomfortable to make my Dominican coffee, so he decided he'd go stand in line on a Sunday morning instead.  Off he went in his pajamas, hanging with all the hipsters waiting for their fix, so they can commence being 'seen' on the wooden patio at the Main Street JJ Bean.

I guess it's still warm enough for most people to sit outside.

Not for me.  I'm in flannel pajamas, wrapped in a flannel housecoat, with a blanket covering all my layers.  I'm seriously making my own sauna.

I suppose that could explain me winning the stench puppy award.  However, there's no point in taking off any layers.  I'll just complain about being too cold, and the stink.

We all know what comes next; boredom.

We're too sick to get up and do anything, but we're finally tired of bad T.V. and wish we could partake in any kind of activity that makes us feel alive.

We stand up in a delirious huff of, "Fuck this shit," and head down the hall to the washroom.

The closest we get to doing any activities is checking out our new hair style in the bathroom mirror, then peeing out the virus we've watered down with orange juice, water and ginger tea.

Well, maybe YOU don't drink ginger tea when you're sick, but you should.  That's the only preaching I'll do.

Come on!  It feels good on the throat!  And builds your immune system!

OK.  That's definitely the last preach, I promise.

So, as I watch another free, bad movie and try to figure out how Papi can snore in tandem with The Golden through all my shows, not to mention, as I have to listen the whining of Psycho Kitty wanting dinner, I wonder, "Why do we stink so much when we get sick?"

More than anything, I await the energy that finally helps me arise from my Pit of Doom and walks me into the shower to cease the smell.

For now, I'll just cuddle with The Bastard Prince.

He likes l'Aroma d'Andréa.

every day i'm getting better and better

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