Dear Nasty Virus,
You think you're funny settling in my chest and nasal cavity as if there weren't things taking up residence there. Like my lungs. And the snot and boogers that were there already. They told me to tell you something: GET OUT. WE WERE HERE FIRST. I even let my body
cackle laugh when the doctor told me last Wednesday that you could probably stick around for up to nine days.
NINE DAYS? Oh, no. We don't have time for that shit. We have Christmas cookies to make. We have Christmas cookies to eat. We have Santa to play and mojitos to make and lots of new kinds of coffee to try. Nine days? Nah, that ain't gonna work for me.
But you didn't listen, did you? You smugly gave your non-commital reply and there was a smirk lingering in the air around me. I have a mind to knock your block off, you fucking contagion.
Did you have to be the kind of virus that increased, instead of suppressed, my appetite? Did you? Was it necessary to make me voraciously hungry and scarf as much cheese as was made in the entire state of Wisconsin during the month of December? Because I don't find that one bit humorous.
Let me tell you what would be really funny: if you coupled the current maladies you've concocted with some lay-her-out-flat cramps. THAT? would be hilarious. Oh, yeah. I'm talking guffaw-worthy. Hopefully, those guffaws would allow me to rapidly and continuously quiver to and fro so that a coughing fit would ensue enabling me to bring up some of this yummy phlegm. Oooohhhhh, pretty.
So here's what I'm proposing: you get out of my body and let me get back to a normal life that does NOT include showering with Very Festive Pomegranate Body Splash instead of actually getting into the bathtub (with the normal things like water and other substances made from compounds of natural oils and fats with sodium hydroxide) and I won't call you a "bitchy infective agent" anymore.