Hey, can I write an attention-grabbing title or what? The problem is that everyone jumps the explanation (this post) to read whatever trash I wrote while in a blackout. Maybe I'll re-think this. Because the explanation is awfully goddamn noble and I want people to know about it.
I Survived Swine Flu. Really.
And the last post was written in that uber-crabby phase of flu where everyone and everything is Out To Get You. You Personally. The 6am trash trucks? Sent especially to wake you and remind you how you feel like crap. The loving cats who want to snuggle since you are a) immobilized in bed, and b) 2 minutes late for their 5 pm snack -- they are clawed demons who not only drool and expose you to Gawd Knows What Further Pathogen, they don't love you, they never really loved you, and should be put down immediately. AND WHY ARENT THERE ENOUGH BLANKETS??? Or, five minutes later, GLOBAL WARMING IS REAL AND IN MY BEDROOM!!!
Under that viral impediment, I re-read a book that anyone would know was a bad choice for someone in their Krusty The Kranky Klown mode. Any attentive caregiver knows that soft boiled eggs and a steady diet of tabloids and cheap fiction are all the patient can digest safely. Unfortunately, I'm not always my own best caregiver, and couldn't find anything else on the shelf during the time I was upright.
But I stand by my premise: Robert A. Heinlein was a sick fuck.
Today I'm larger than that -- I finally feel 100% today after 16 really rotten days -- and add this observation: who the hell cares about Robert A. Heinlein? I mean, who the hell cares what I think of him? But I was sure it was of Burning Importance at the time.
OK, I could pull the post. But seriously, he was a, you know ...
This post is less an apology than a ploy to obtain sympathy for having a disease As Seen On TV. As a virology and epidemiology groupie, it was kind of like sleeping with Jagger. I mean today's Jagger. Sure, you could brag about it, but would it be worth the process?
And could I write about my oinky illness the way Katherine Anne Porter wrote about the 1918-1919 Great Influenza in Pale Horse, Pale Rider? Or that staple of my adolescence, Love Story? Was there a moment when I turned to my "preppy" (jesus, imagine today's sad wreck that is Ryan O'Neil and try to remember when he was believably "preppy"?), if I had one, and say something deathless like, "Love means never having to say you're sorry," while looking attractively wan and smelling like baby powder? Apart from that line being entirely contrary to everything I know about love, no, I can't equal that pathos, or Porter's otherworldly quality.
Mostly, I despised everyone and everything around me, in this world or any other. And looked like hell. And smelled worse. And scared room service at the Mall of America Hilton and interrupted my therapist's vacation, but that's another story. That outbreak of swine flu in Minneapolis? Not me. I swear. I was sitting in first class, our air is filtered differently, so there. So I'm not even going to write about it. Forget you read this. Just give me the Congressional Medal of Honor for valor under fire, and I can move on.
Happy Veterans Day to the real heroes, by the by.