By Nous December 19, 2003 ENTER THE ACHE-O-HOL It was Tuesday morning on the week before Christmas and my mother and cousin - who was just about to leave for school - were home at eleven twenty-five, the hour of my awakening. I felt fine and walked out to go about my weekly routine of wandering the rooms, acting silly with Mother, and watching television - not necessarily in that order. Turning the radio to the oldies station, I did a jig to some obscure waltz and set my day in motion with the old tunes of the fifties. I ran the plan through my mind as I waited for my cousin to go off to school. "Do you want some chicken breast with green beans today?" asked my mum. Hesitating (I have a terrible habit of not being able to make up my mind) I hopped my way to the living room, plopped myself on the couch and sighed, "I guess." "Hurry," said Mother, "I'm about to leave." "Okay. I'll have some." Walking to the other couch, I sank into it as my mum picked up my cousin's backpack in preparation for their departure. "I think I have the flu." I said, sort of to myself. "My legs feel like -" I searched for the word. "Aching?" offered Mum. "Like flimsy." I sputtered in that ridiculous Nous way of mine, so awkward and insecure, so retarded. "They feel shaky and weak." My mom looked at me and said something that I didn't catch. She fetched my plate and I retrieved my coke from good ol' Freezer, the saviour of flavor. But not really. Sam's Choice tasted so fucking weird, and it's something I had only recently noticed. And there appeared to be little bits of wood or perhaps plastic in the soda itself. Hmm, I thought, and picked out one of the larger bits. Halfway into All My Children, I felt I could no longer eat, and just simply wanted to rest; I felt tired. Perhaps, I thought, I was buying into my own drama and coming down with the flu. Perhaps. I forced myself up and disarded a bit of the chicken and the last green bean. I was going to bed and it was only twelve thirty. There is a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip in which Calvin, at home in his bed with a thermometer in his mouth, is watching a soap opera in which a woman and a man plot a murder, and that strip was in my mind as I went to bed. I turned on the television, and propped myself up on a pillow, but I was much too tired to live my little fantasy, and ended up sinking deep into the warm blankets. The television stayed on. Soon the programming block was over and I was able to focus on sleep but that proved much too hard. My neck felt strained and my stomach sort of hurt and I felt dizzy and my eyes burned. I had the flu and I knew it. My mother came home, saw my awful state and let me rest. All day, I tried to sleep, but release did not come, and I spent most of the afternoon slipping in and out of unconsiousness. Later that night, I awoke, thinking all was better, and prepared myself for dinner. In the kitchen, I had a conversation with my mother, but the whole scene is vague, and all I remember is that at some point, the world blurred before my eyes and I heard myself fall. At that point, the blackness sort of ate me up, but I wasn't out for more than three seconds. I must have been walking to my room in my physically distressed state because there I was lying by my bedroom door and looking up at my mother and youngest brother staring down at me. At the time, I was too tired to think, but now I can't help but imagine what a hopelessly dramatic Victorian princess I must have seemed, momentarily slain by the dark forces at work against her, fainting at the slightest thing and recovering with murmurings of, "I'll be all right." I was assisted from the floor and rested a while on the couch. WAITING ROOM I didn't feel out of place with my bedraggled appearance in the waiting room, no sir. But here's what IS out of place - kids doing things loudly. Actually, it's not out of place, but it should be. I don't need to hear some crazy song sung to the tune of "I've Been Working On the Railroad" blaring out of some dumb little Playskool toy for a fucking hour. Also, there was a black guy there, and that was cool. Black guys are neat, I think. They're so laid back and know how to make even the most arduous shit feel like a fucking box social. It's in their blood, in their history. Just watching him chillin' by the window watching the car crash outside was awesome. "NUMBER SIX!" Jesus fucking Christ. My mom got up and said, "Come on." We were escorted to a small room which looked big because there was only one cabinet, a scale, and some chairs inside. We waited for the doctor. ^-^ CLINICS ARE JESUS ^-^ The woman who reviewed my physical condition at the clinic was a saucy sort, the kind of person who thought that the way to get one to open up was through making one feel like shit because they didn't feel like talking because I was up all night trying to sleep and I still feel terrible, okay? The doctor, on the other hand, was a wonderful woman who smiled and listened and agreed and understood that, as a patient, I had the right to feel a little bad and to want someone to make me feel like I was King. "You have the flu," she informed me, after the examination. "There's nothing I can really do, but I will give you some medicine for it. The flu can last for up to four weeks, but with this medicine, you'll probably feel better in about ten days. Still, you won't really be your old self until after about four weeks." She then asked me questions about my diet and we were all set to go. Then my mother said, "I also wanted him to have a blood test to see if he was anemic." "Sure. That can totally be done. Just go to the waiting room and we'll call you in for that in a while." Damn it. I still have pinched skin from that shit. Later that Wednesday night, I felt better and watched some television before once again trying hopelessly to sleep. I saw this thing on the Food Network with Mario Batali going to different cities to try different pizzas. It looked easy and I'm thinking of making a few myself. HEARTS ON THURSDAY (or, HOW I SAVED MYSELF FROM THE TERRIBLE LIZARD THAT, WHILE ENTIRELY DEVOID OF EXTRANEOUS LIMBS SUCH AS A TAIL, TOPPLED THE BODIES OF KINGS THROUGH SINISTER MEANS) I spent all day learning to stay out of bed (because I'm such a love machine when I have the flu, didn't you know?) and I helped my mother make a pizza, which, if you'll remember, was something I had been thinking of doing. But the pizza came out not as good as I had hoped. Oh, the toppings were all right and it cooked nicely, but the crust tasted a little too sweet, as if it were pie crust. Not up to snuff at all. That night, I slept badly, still, waking up at two in the morning and not being able to go back to sleep until about an hour or two hours later. Because I'm a love machine, remember? THE POPE IS A FUCKING CUNT I awoke at eight in the morning, still a bit wobbly, but ultimately much much better than I had been the previous days. The early morning passed into noon and my dad asked me if I wanted to pick up some pizzas which, of course, I did. He phoned some little pizza place and we set off to pick up two large pizzas, one pepperoni, one with everything. Then something weird didn't happen. In tenth grade, a guy whose name I can't remember but who I recall was in my geometry class used to bum a dollar from me everyday for lunch. Everyone used to make fun of him, though for what I can't remember. But everyday, he would ask me for a dollar and promise to pay me back the FOLLOWING week. Because that's when he was really getting payed. Anyway, whatever. I didn't mind. But the weird thing that didn't happen was this: He was working there at that pizza place (I don't remember the name of it because I'd never been there before). At least I thought it was him. As my dad and I waited, I glanced up from the paper I was reading and actually looked at him for the first time. It had to be him. I didn't say hello or anything - I didn't even acknowledge him. And it seemed he wanted it that way, too, so I helped my dad with the pizzas and the soup that he had ordered at the last minute and we went off. That would have been weird if something happened there. WHY BAND SHIRTS ARE BETTER THAN SPORTS JERSEYS Yeah, I get that if you're more into sports than music, then a jersey of your favourite player for, let's say, basketball is the equivalent of someone else's Mountain Goats shirt. But, first of all, you payed twenty bucks for that fucking jersey, where as I don't know if I'd ever pay that much for a shirt - even a shirt from my favourite band. Second of all, even if I did pay twenty bucks for a band shirt, I can still use it as a shirt later on, or it can be recycled at the Goodwill and someone else can use it (not that I really give a shit about that, let's be honest). But with a jersey, it's like, you can't wear it as a shirt. It looks fucking stupid. It's made out of that horrible material and falls off easily if not the right size for someone. It just slinks right off. No one wants a sports jersey, not even someone who shops at the Goodwill. So quit narrowing my selection ;_; you god damn cunt. Fin Post Script: I finished this exactly one hour after starting it. Isn't that eerie? Oh, nevermind. I just looked and typing this out cost me a minute for some reason.