After checking out my entry about getting my very first flu shot, that asshole went and gave me the flu last week on Christmas Eve. And it was none too pleasant. It was as if Santa came down my chimney and beat the shit out of me with a tire iron.
SANTA: Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, Sally!
ME: But my name's not Sally.
SANTA: It is now, bitch!
Worse than that, though, was the feverish dreams that bombard you throughout the course of the evening. In my case, it was a single dream that repeatedly tried to bore a hole through my skull, like a woodpecker duct-taped to my forehead. To get an idea of what it was like, click here and watch it for five hours.
I almost slept through all of Christmas. At least I tried, except my parents kept calling every 25 minutes to see if I was still alive. I guess it's been years since I've been this sick, so they were just being concerned parents. But my mom made it seem as if I'd eaten an entire mad cow. And after the 47th phone call, I wanted to eat a herd of mad cows.
All that sleep helped, though, because I was feeling a lot better the next day. I wasn't quite skipping through a forest meadow, singing to bluebirds and beavers. But I was somewhat back to normal - although it's been a coffee-free and vodka-less kind of normal, which ranks it pretty low on the normal chart.
And I learned to never write an entry about the flu ever again.