Thursday, June 5, 2008

sicko. i am it.

I am making passionate love to eating a hot bowl of Wolfgang Puck soup. Soup is all I could think about all day. The food prep girl presiding over my lunchtime sandwich order was all, "we quit serving it for the summer." Her face added, "you flippin' dumbass- it is 95 degrees." I argued back in my whiniest telepathy:

chick. I have a very sore throat and my office thermostat is set, out of my control, at about 55 motherfucking degrees goddamn Fahrenheit. there are two things that i would kill you for: health insurance is one. the other? yes: soup.

Mr. Puck has this on his label: Heat. Serve. Refrigerate remaining soup.

1. This is my favorite recipe ever.

2. Wolfgang Puck does not understand my love of food. Remaining soup!? He kids.

So I have these things in my possession, and they are good.

  • (Soup, of course. Crackers also.)

  • Antibiotics, again. Once more, with feeling. Am now armed with Z Pac or whatever it's called, that shit that means business and gives amoxicillin wedgies in the locker room.

  • Pseudoephidrine, after giving my driver's license and swearing a blood oath not to make crank with it.

  • Stonyfield Farms French Vanilla Fat Free Yogurt, my yummy weapon against the yeasties.

  • An actual albuterol inhaler.

  • Apple juice, which I crave during illness because it makes me be instantly six years old, watching the Smurfs while my mom fluffs my pillow and wipes my nose.


This is all wonderful. The inhaler may be my favorite part of the story (except the happy ending.) My lungs have been limping along on over the counter crap, and are very happy to be fully inflated and ready to be exercised. My tread mill wheezing has kicked the crap inhaler's ass, so I've stopped. Now I am ready, once the junk in my head dissipates, to get fit. w00t for oxygen.

The happy ending is the Bird, sleeping over her grandies' so I can catch up on work then crash like a heavy falling object.

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