|Oy, I'm kvetching.|
I have to remember, my workplace is a pit of disease, much like a kindergarten play room.
I compromised my attitude for coming into work by promising it'd leave me some time to write in my blog: all the things I've been saving up to finish in my drafts, everything that's been waiting on handwritten notebook pages to be copied into a long column of writing that people will probably groan about having to read through....things of that nature. Including yesterday's journey through Park Slope with the Rybotz, buying comics at Bergen, visiting KingCon, chatting with a bored Jonathan Ames, scoffing at overpriced vintage wares, and switching locations of stifling to frigid temperatures faster than that stupid Katy Perry song. (Like how I just summarized my day in a sentence? I need to try this more often - less bored readers.)
That said, somewhere in between sweating in my coat, freezing because of the sweat caused from excess coat when sprinting outside with my long impatient NY legs, then reverting back to sweating once my coat was recovered with all the winter items I had since peeled away.....I got sick.
This also might have been a result of my skimpy Frosted Flakes + Fiber Bar diet, which was finally topped off with a hasty dinner that I eagerly devoured within 5 minutes, out of fear it might disappear before I could finish. These are the illogical realities of a New Yorker; or just a starving idiot - not sure if there's a difference.
Anywho, walking up and down the subway stairs made me realize that I was dizzy, almost weak, and that my irritation at being slow was not as important as my fear of possibly becoming that loathsome sick passenger responsible for delayed F train service. I'm usually guilty of despising that person, but now all of a sudden I'm guilty of being that person who forgot to eat their Cheerios in the morning and passed out in the middle of the closing doors. (However, rest-assured I'll still be complaining about the asshole who throws himself in front of the train in the near future - some of us have lives you know.)
My answer to this faint feeling was protein in the form of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. I have never glared at a cashier with such pale, sickening intensity. How long does it take to get a pre-made patty slapped on a bun and thrown into a bag? Apparently, longer than it takes me to get angry about it.
Later on at friend's, head still woozy while watching 1977's Tentacle by Italian director, Assonitis (don't think the pun was lost on me, and don't judge my off the cuff selection of entertaining Saturday night fare), I began to retrace my steps in hopes of discovering what the hell was wrong with me.....
OhmygodIhadaTamponinfor8hours. I'm probably going to die.
This provided me with at least 3 hours of pure hypochondriacal panic, as I fretted over my symptoms in relation to TSS, along with the possibility of seeing a giant octopus eye suddenly emerge from the depths of the ocean in HD.
Luckily, as I sit here the next day at work, there are no rashes to be seen; but my stomach is still unhappy with anything I feed it, and my eyes refuse to stay alert enough to focus on my typing. What could it be? What plague hath befallen me this time?
It's not a far stretch to assume I contracted something while working. All week, there have been bodies walking around with the cold, allergies, stomach flu, who knows what else. Come to think of it, ever since I started working here 2 years ago, I've been to the doctor more frequently than ever. Perhaps this is a direct result of the gift of health insurance....perhaps not.
In any case, the condition of my health and those of this morose, dust-filled prison seem inextricably connected. That, and my editor is playing crappy early 2000 Emo music with shrill guitars and thoroughly annoying twentysomething tirades about burying graves, wasted time or some shit.
And I shall continue to whine about it.