Dear totally random 100+ degree fever,
You are such an asshole. Why are you such an asshole? What did I ever do to you? At least if you were Tetanus I could be like, "Maybe I shouldn't have eaten off that rusty picnic table," or if I had to cut my foot off because it was trapped under a boulder I could blame it on my poor judgment in mountain biking during an rock slide.
But you, you little son-of-a-bitch, you just came out of nowhere. I was all happy on Sunday night, minding my own business. Typical night: oral sex, bowl of cereal, a chapter in my book and then off to sleep. Then WHAM.
4:00 in the morning I wake to the odd sensation that my body is on fire in a meat locker. I grab Puppy for warmth and comfort, but he senses that something is wrong (probably from the tight, shaky grip I have around his neck) and he wriggles free. For the next hour I drift in and out of a hazy sleep filled with hallucinogenic dreams of soccer, which makes the long, torturous night seem even longer.
Monday morning. Boom, roasted. Literally. Brooke goes right into caregiver mode and I know I am really sick when she makes a naughty nurse joke and I feel nothing but the hollow depths of my overheating soul.
So there I am laying in the bed, huddled up in the fetal position under all of the blankets in Miami, kind of delusional while Puppy stares into my face from a few inches away, simultaneously not caring that Brooke is witnessing this pathetic scene and acknowledging that I definitely never intended for Brooke to witness a scene as pathetic as this. "Two years, ten months. That's how long we went before the thin veil of manliness was torn down." All because of you, you stupid asshole fever.
And the worst part is, aside from popping Tylenol like Flintstone vitamins, no one knows how to get rid of you. Like the old saying goes, "Feed a cold, starve a fever." Or is it, "Feed a fever, starve a cold?" However it goes, here's one thing it certainly is: the worst piece of medical advice ever, mostly because no one can fucking remember it.
At one point I had two blankets and a heating pad on me because Brooke was convinced I should sweat it out. When I weakly protested, "But won't it cook my organs?" she replied with a soothing, "Shhh." If that's your game, fever, to turn Brooke and I against each other – it won't work. Our love is . . . fuck I'm feeling light headed again. You asshole, I'm not done with you.
Where was I? Oh right, you're a dickweed, dickweed fever. If you were a person, you would be Glenn Beck's girlfriend. Because of you I haven't eaten anything except toast in two days. Tonight, I am supposed to go to a yacht party. Do you know what happens on yacht parties? Neither do I, and now I NEVER WILL because my body is ravaged from overheating like a menopausal dinosaur. And no, I don't have any idea what I'm talking about. Thanks to you.
All I know is you'd better not come back anytime soon. Because next time I'll be ready. I even made this handy diagram as a reminder for future use.
Go fuck yourself,