Bronchitis, My Doctor Tells Me

It was inevitable: I’m sick. I have a bone-rattling cough, fever-dream night-sweats, the sorest of throats, and lungs that feel as though they’ve been scraped with a rusty fork.

Some may say I deserve it for all the good fortune of late. I say: please kill me.

This illness — bronchitis, my doctor tells me — struck with swift and merciless zeal on Saturday afternoon. My plans began to crumble one by one under the weight of my delirium. ‘Big Fish’? Scratch. Heather and Jen karaoke? Scratch. Ocean’s DUMBO party? Scratch. Martha’s birthday party? Scratch. Soon, it was midnight, and I had only sweat-soaked sheets to show for myself.

And so I whiled away my weekend with my West Village sickmate, watching good Ali G and bad Cinemax in equal turn. Only HBO’s ‘Angels In America’ distracted me from my pain and self pity. Though my sickmate helped.

36-hours later, then, I am fresh from the Duane Reade, stocked up on decongestants, cough suppressants, antibiotics, and the like. It had better kick in quickly, though. I have no tolerance for this. I promise: I’ll be better and more grateful next time. Just let me feel human again, please!?!

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