Sickness.July 29, 2009
I am sick. My throat is clogged, which means I now posess a barritone the likes of Amitabh Bachchan, coughing fits that have rendered me unf...
I am sick. My throat is clogged, which means I now posess a barritone the likes of Amitabh Bachchan, coughing fits that have rendered me unfit to handle any kind of beverage without spewing it all over the floor and a nose so runny it'd give Usian Bolt a complex.
Going to the doctor didn't help much either. Don't get me wrong, our family doctor is a wonderful wonderful man, and he's the guy who's treated nearly 3 generations of common cold in our family, which is probably the reason why he still treats me like I'm 2 and insists on giving me a piece of stale candy everytime I visit him. But that is when I go with my mom or dad.
Sometimes when I go alone, he doesn't recognize me all that well. You might think it's a good thing, but no, it's only worse because then, he asks me if all is well with my husband.
Surprisingly he recognized me this time, and gave me the usual "the last time I saw you, you were 3 feet tall and had 2 ponytails!" lines. I tried to giggle but ended up coughing and infected pretty much his entire clinic with my germ trail. I think that was the precise moment he stopped talking about my grandmother's stomach problems in the 80s and started writing my prescription. Thankfully I was spared of the stale alpenlibe.
The antibiotics that he had prescribed for me pretty much knocked me out for most part of the day, and in the process also killed my tongue (everything tastes like a mixture of sawdust and cardboard).
I've probably used half the amazon's trees in tissues, it still hurts to swallow anything, my head is woozy and my nose is setting new track
Oh well. Whatever it takes to bunk office, eh?