Yeah, no shock, and yeah, I guess this is a weird sorta entry to break my lengthy absence. But, if you know me well at all, you know I crave attention, and never more so than when I’m ill. And when my pleas for sympathy were met with a harsh (albeit accurate) description of my recent diet and lack of Athletic excursions from my nearest and dearest, I figured I’d reach out to you, my devoted public for the succour I so crave.

“So, Wanderer. What is this mysterious ailment you have?”

Good question faceless Voice-over guy. So, my symptoms can be broken down in 3 separate a distinct ailments

1) Wracking Cough. You know the doctor’s waiting room? That dank depressing stopover for the terminally ill? Well, you know That Guy. The guy in the corner who has the Cough of the Ages, that pretty much tells everyone else in the room that he’s one installment away from buying the farm, and yet, at the same time, manages to make everyone else feel better as at least they’re not that bad? Yeah, it’s that bad. Every one sends a wracking pain throughout my ribcage and spine. Now, I’m willing to attribute this to the, perhaps moronic, activity of sitting in one of those automatic massage chairs for over an hour. My back hasn’t really felt the same since. I think I need one of Dr. Homer’s Spinal Cans. Anyway…it sucks.

2) The Dripping Ooze. This came on a little later. I don’t think I need to go into too much description, but if you must know…ever read those DnD supplements where they try to describe the way a Gelatinous Cube moves? Or the way a Green Slime looks? Well, thanks to my newfound ailment, that’s one more thing I don’t need to exercise the old cerebellum on. Next!

3) My personal favorite, the Trots. Why would that be my favorite? Not for the runs to the bathroom. Not for the excessive Toilet Paper bill. And certainly not for wonderful feeling of having my lower intestine flushed out like a 6-year-old wringing out the last drops of his defrosted Mr. Freeze Cool-pop. (For Americans: think Go-gurt. Yes, I know it’s not the same thing, but fuck you…I’ve got an analogy going here, and I’m not breaking it now). Now, the real gem in this particular advancement of medical woes is the sense of unity my body decided to show. My respiratory system decided to pack it in, and my nasal passage decided it was a good time to hold the Ozzfest of Disgusting Slimes, so my gastro-intestinal tract, in a sense of solidarity not seen since the “He who-shall-not-be-named” incident, decided it might as well pack in it as well.

That’s gosh damned nice of it. I mean…God forbid I should get some bed rest, or drink some nice hot soup (or pizza, yeah). No, it need to be firing fluids outta both ends, or this just isn’t gonna qualify as an epic level disease.

So yeah… Being sick sucks.

[Editor’s Note: If you think you’re disgusted now, consider the plight of the person who shares a rather small house with the Plague Bearer. Also, note that although I might not be considered a font of sympathy, I did just read through all that and correct the grammar, spelling, and typos.)

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