Cold Comfort

Mr. Cold Virus
Somewhere in My Sinus Cavities
My Head
First in the Nation Primary State, USA

Dear Mr. Cold Virus,

First, for the sake of verisimilitude, I guess this should state, "Dear Bister Code Virus," but writing that will get old fast.  I suppose I'm overanthropomorphising your germ-ridden little self, calling you by a male title.  Still, that's how I see you, all hunched over like Snidely Whiplash and rubbing your (many, many thousands of) hands maniacally as you chortle evilly over my sinuses the way your namesake did over the young maid tied to the railroad tracks.  I gather you think you're in for a reprise of the infamous pre-birth-of-Celeste epic head cold, but since I'm allowed drugs this time, I say, HA!  Take THAT, Mr. Virus Man!   That'll teach you and your little phages and ... and ... whatever-they-call-em from Bio class ... to do ... whatever it is you do that makes people sick!  [Ed. note:  I just referenced the Hawley-Smoot Tariff in the previous post, people, I can't remember everything y'all were supposed to learn in high school in every subject, ya know!  At least I do remember that there's no point taking antibiotics for viruses because viruses aren't biotic anyway.  Which isn't the same thing as 'bionic,' either, you nitwits, so if you were picturing Lindsay Wagner leaping around my nasal cavities, just STOP.]

Oh, I know you think you're so clever, you head cold you, lurking around in my kids' day care classrooms, waiting for the juuuuuust the right moment to hop onto a sticky finger or a damp face.  You already knew that neither hand-washing nor surface-wiping nor gloom of night will stop you from your appointed rounds when a soggy toddler wants a hug.  You thought it was so much fun watching me go to work in a cold-induced haze, the kind of sick where everything ... takes ... a .... really ... long ... time ... to ... process.  I had to mentally coach myself through every move I made (Okay, now we're going to pick UP the pen.  That's it, thaaaat's it.  Good!  Now let's take off the cap.  Yep, here we go.  We're doing it now.  We're taking off that cap.), only to discover I was staring off into space for moments at a time (Huh?  Whu?  What was I?  Oh yeah.  Pen.  Cap.  Here we go.)  I know you think it's so funny when I go to class looking like Rudolf, thanks to the cheap, scratchy tissues, and sounding like Elmer Fudd, thanks to - well, thanks to YOU. 

But you know what? 

The joke's on YOU, my friend! 

Wanna know why? 

First, my period seven class?  My hyper, annoying, unmotivated, school-skipping, authority-flouting, work-not-completing period seven class?  Is MUCH, MUCH MORE BEARABLE when I'm out of it than when I'm fully functional and alert.  Which leads me to my next, and more important point, which is:

PHARMACEUTICALS, BABY!! 

I got one of every kind of cold capsule, liqui-gel, gel-cap, gel-tab, day formula, night formula, tussin and phedrine product going.  I got expectorants making things runny and decongestants drying them up.  I got the zinc tabs for the homeopathy, the vitamin C drink for the immune system, and the plain ole over-the-counter meds to round things out.  I got the extra-fawncy tissues with the lotion AND the aloe (not that it's doing my poor sore beezer any good at this juncture, but I'm sure it'll kick in soon).  I got so much crap in my bloodstream, you're going to be crying like a bitch and begging - BEGGING - me to let you leave and go infest some other poor sucker with a houseful of snotty-nosed babies.  And if worse comes to worse, I got so much "nighttime cold aid" sloshing around in my system, I'll be rendered unconscious long enough to forget (for awhile, anyway) that I'm playing unwilling host to a frat party of disease in my cranium. 

And if you ask me real nice, maybe I'll even autograph a pair of boxing gloves for you on your way OUT. 

Smell ya later (at least, when my sense of smell returns, thank you),

Some Pig