Do not laugh at nurses. Heed me!
For three weeks, the lung ick and the anti-hunger project have been racing to kill me. I answered emails at 5 in the morning while gasping for breath. Sick days were notable for their number, intensity and hoarse phone calls to volunteers. I broke down and took Advil. Then Almanzo over there tossed the “What if I cut cancer class, huh?” card on the table as I was no longer able to even lie flat, so I went to the goddamn doctor. The doctor prescribed two more prescriptions than I would have been willing to take even a day earlier, then I went to take photos for the project while coughing, which means eyeliner was coursing down my cheeks. We locked up the donations and I went for a chest x-ray. Hey! No pneumonia. My sister Daria owes me five bucks!
Being sick is boring and talking about being sick is a bore. I can’t wait to have something else to talk about and a voice to talk about it in that doesn’t remind me of Joy Behar’s. There’s nothing wrong with Joy Behar’s voice, when it’s coming out of Joy Behar’s mouth, but when it’s coming out of mine, I’m looking around for Whoopi and ready to kick Elizabeth Hasselbeck’s pampered ass. After a nap, maybe…
Poor Impulse Control 
Yeah yeah yeah. Get off the cross, we need the wood. You’ll be thanking me when your cough clears up and you don’t die at the extraordinarily youthful 28 that you look when you’re not hacking.
I send flowers when people are sick. What should I send when people are frigging sarcastic?
I usually just flip the bird and let it go at that, but candy is also nice.
Oh, and I thought “the extraordinarily youthful 28 that you look when you’re not hacking” was especially sweet.
Yeah. I pretty much curdled.
I meant it as a compliment.
So how are your lungs now?