After a series of immense coughing fits by yours truly, the mother became so agitated she demanded that I go to the doctor's immediately and put on one of the 40 state-of-the-art N95 masks I had bought to combat H1N1.
Well, I'll go later. WITHOUT the mask.
It's been two weeks of playing cat-and-mouse with sickness. First, the throat had much fun playing "tickle-me-Elmo". And in social situations, the dilemma of whether to cough or not to cough is more frustrating than the tickling feather within the gullet, for I know that putting myself out of my agony requires a massive bout of hearty wheezing which will instantly make me an old man. It is the classic case of damned if I do, damned if I don't. And don't get me started on the nose. While I'm grateful that it hasn't cried me a river yet, it has produced matter of a certain distinctive brownish tinge, reminiscent of the Tiger Leaping Gorge's massive river. Teh Terik, anyone?
I was even on the brink of getting the big disease- Fever. I believe the germs were on the sidelines already, waiting for the right time to play inside my organs. However, I finally declared I'm going to bed early, and I hit those unicell organisms with a mighty bout of sleep attack. Take that, arseholes.
Well, ultimately, I got better. It's just the cough that's sticking to me like glue. Featherman is still working his wand, tickling my oesophagus with every opportunity. (Especially during sticky social situations).
Anyway, I'll probably be fine. I'm not allowing myself to have that big fever I had in February, where I was basically living at home as if I was living in a hospice. Exams are near, times have changed and the weather sucks. Therefore, I'm going to combat every cough with a poker face in the spirit of Lady GaGa.
And with each time I mention her, I never fail to dive into a rendition of the song.
"Can't read my, can't read my, oh you can't read my poker face. Cough's [sic] got me like nobody".
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