The Sick, Poor Writer


When you are a sick, poor writer, not only do you hate life because you feel physically miserable, but the joy of smells and taste–which are free and are an inherent human right and pleasure–are ripped from you.

And not only can you not enjoy the warm, fluffy smell of the dryer sheets tossing at the Laundromat, but you have to endure that miserably because you opted to pay for your laundry instead of cough medicine.

Should you splurge and get cough syrup? You already bring home slightly damp towels because you want to keep that fifty cents for coffee on Monday, instead of paying for sixteen minutes more in the dryer.

So you play denial for a while. You tell yourself that that isn’t a tickle in your throat and that you really feel fine when you head out.

And when denial doesn’t work, you search your apartment for leftover medicine from your last illness to see if any of those meds might help you now.

An ounce of Nyquil, a sheet of Tylenol Cold pills, half a jar of gummie vitamins, and eleven Ricola–or is the plural Ricoli?–sit on your desk as the last guard against whatever viral monster is threatening to break out.

The thought occurs to you that this is what broadcast news shows mean when they talk about a cocktail of drugs in today’s youth or with celebrities. But you figure that they wouldn’t give you these things over the counter if they didn’t think it okay for consumption, right?

The next issue, if you are a sick, poor writer is tissues.

Now, this isn’t a concern…yet…but when it gets to that point in an illness, no sick, poor writer will have proper Kleenex or packets of tissues on his or her person. That is an expense you can just do without.

No, instead, you have tissues from Starbucks or tissues from the bathroom toilet roll or the actual bathroom toilet roll in your backpack, which you carry around with pride.

But there comes that point, where your illness does hit you, and your head starts to hurt a little too much, and the world expects you to keep going. So you end up buying some cough syrup at the store.

You buy yourself some Wal-Tussin and hope for the best.


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