Strangely Naked

In case it wasn’t clear in my last post, I was recently horrifically ill –not “horrifically” in the sense that I almost died or anything but in the sense that my orifices were treated to cascades of appalling fluids escaping my body. During this time as a sprinkler of human waste and sick, I realized that other people were reacting to me the way I felt: like an abomination to humanity. Once I realized how I felt about myself, it helped me understand why people were treating me like a beloved pet that’s bleeding out of its eyelids. “Oh no, poor Scruffy, I want to help, but I’m not sure if I should touch you. Do you want to go out into the field…you know, for a walk? Let Mommy just grab something out of this case that is definitely not a method of ending your misery in a way that I’ll justify by calling it merciful release.”

Mostly, general humanity views the ill like one of the human/animal hybrids from The Island of Doctor Moreau, they’re horrified and even if it looks like it may have been your former husband, Barry, he now has the face of a wild boar and you’re not sure if you get too close if he’ll bite you. I guess a zombie metaphor works too, but regardless, the closest anyone wants to get is the safe enough distance to call out, “is there anything I can do for you, like maybe throw you a can of soup, an opener and a pack of matches before I board up the door?”

We should develop drones that come equipped with hologram projection technology or that can just carry tablets with Skype so we don’t have to be in the same stinky germ pit as the sick person. Then you can fly the drone out, pack a missile with whatever the sick person needs and drone it right into their sweaty, sick face. When I’m trying to concoct cockamamy plans like that to avoid the sick, it makes me have a whole lot of respect for nurses. Nurses see a sick person and just like nuzzle up and wipe a sweaty butt. No hesitation just, “gimme that sicky bum!”

Speaking of bums, I am recovering well from my latest fight with my stomach. Sure, I feel like I spent three days having my prostate checked every two hours by Shaquille O’Neal using his full fist, but I still feel superior to what I felt during that experience. But now comes the part where I have to convince people that I am not a monster.

Not sure if any of you have been through a stomach flu-esque situation, but there comes the time when you think your stomach is ready to reintroduce more than just a cracker. It’s a glorious day…almost as glorious as the one where, after a rough weekend, you look in the toilet on Monday night and say, “hey, that’s promising!”

Once the appetite returns, even just a little, the debilitated will devour anything the fickle tummy dare accept. For me it was rice and saltines. When I was actually eager to eat a microwave cup of rice using a saltine spoon, I was confronted with, “looks like your appetite has returned.” While I logically know that’s an encouraging statement, my insecurity also can’t help but think that statement sounds like what someone says to a horse strapped to a feed bag.

Eventually, once I gain some distance on this sickness, I can slowly prove that I am not a monster and my tusks will slowly retract, allowing humanity to return to me and me to humanity.