There are few things more boring than someone who drones on and on about a run-of-the-mill illness. Where it hurts; how it feels; which viscous internal fluids are in attendance -- color and volume. No one wants to hear about it.
I have the flu.
It's that new and improved flu, the one everybody is raving about. And yes, it is special; rather like a world tour, as the thing starts (oh wait, in case you catch it, this is a spoiler alert) with a volcanic throat from, say Italy, and progresses to weird Amazon-like barking noises from the chest, and ends, four days later with a hard landing inside the nostrils of Niagara Falls.
A couple of friends left some sacrificial lambs by my front door. Meds, soup, pie. Pie? I don't know if it's because I'm high as a kite after doubling down on Theraflu, but that one seems rather frivolous to me. Like, maybe he doesn't think I'm really sick, but just kind of stay at home and watch Netflix sort of sick?
And if that's what he thinks, he's wrong, so wrong. I'm in bed, flat on my back, listening to audio books. Hours and hours of audio books. There's light years of free audio books on youtube. Which should be a good thing, but actually ended up spoiling many of my illusions.
What I've discovered is that, while 30-minutes of Sarah Vowell enchants, 31-minutes is irritating, and 240-minutes pure torture. Ditto Sedaris. Ken Burns, Cooke.
As for Winston Churchill -- put a fucking sock in it.
Then again, this just might be the Alka-Seltzer Plus talking.