I am a tad bit under the weather as of late… or more plainly: I am sick as hell. What started off as a light cold has inevitably exploded into an oh-my-god-I’ve-forgotten-what-it-feels-like-not-to-be-ill-eww-gross-is-that-what-the-inside-of- my-lungs-look-like??? full-blown influenza extravaganza.
Needless to say, my cough is about the only thing about me that’s been productive, let alone creative. All of the typical symptoms are there: lethargy, aches, headaches, coughing… but most of all, an excessive consumption of loo roll (that’s toilet paper for you non-Brits) as a result of blowing my nose every few minutes. Oh, why not Kleenex Delux Triple-Ply with Aloe you ask? Just who do you think I am… Paris Hilton?
I’m not exactly sure how many packages of loo roll I’ve been through so far, but I do know that I’ve nearly exhausted my supply. Which means, yes, I will be compelled to not only leave my bedroom, but my flat this weekend. Eek!
While I have no empirical evidence at hand, I might be an above-average phlegmatic person, not in the apathetic sense, but in the… err.. phleghm-y sense.
Anecdotally, I do remember my exasperated brother once asking as he’d hear me incessantly blowing my nose during one of my legendary teenage colds… “how can one woman produce so much snot?!?!?!” It was a rhetorical question.
This is one of the reasons I tend to avoid dairy products at the best of times, although rumour has it that I routinely fail to respect a certain stop sign at the corner of Brie and Camembert.
Apart from considering a change of Second Life display name to Coughy McPhlegmington, my creative juices have unfortunately run a bit dry. Which means I haven’t been able to post much either here or on irez.me, which I’m kind of bummed about. Yeah, I’m pretty sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.
But really? Can’t I be creative while I’m sick? Surely there is some spark of something or other that I can muster?
Well, today I decided I had to write something, just to prove to myself I hadn’t lost all inspiration. So, here’s the result of my efforts, combined with the active ingredients of almost a half-dozen over-the-counter drugs.
I shall call it A Sonnet to Loo Roll:
Puppies run ’round you in tireless loops
You are the spawn of intelligent wood
Your fibres the spring of pulp and dye soup
Hardened flat under the heat you withstood
That air of dry softness that you retain
Shipped intact by truck, train, and by freighter
Measured and cut, wrapped in bulk like cocaine
Your value by weight certainly greater
Hung over, not under, I have my reasons
I might even fold your torn end in a corner
Yes, over, in spite of the risk of malfeasance
By Persian cats bent on random disorder
Into my bin is an ignoble end
For such reliable yet discarded friends