Walking pneumonia

I've written about nothing but being sick for a week now. It must be boring to read about, but the zine is my diary so it's boring, by definition. What d'ya want for three bucks anyway?

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Saturday morning came, and the thick white coating on my tongue had faded to a polka dot pattern, so I was less miserable than the day before. Most of the bacteria or virus had been peed away, or blown out of my nose or coughed up and out my mouth — I'd been a veritable mucous machine. Feeling better, I wheeled the cart to Telegraph.

It took lots longer than usual, because at every intersection all along the way, I had to find a bench or lean against a telephone pole, to rest before continuing. Would've preferred to stay home and sleep, but I can't afford any more days without pay.

By the time I got to my assigned block and set up the table, my skin, hair, and clothes were drenched in sweat, and as quick as I'd wipe it away, fresh sticky soup poured out of my pores.

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Brenda worked beside me today, though I left an empty space between us and told her not to come too close. When I shared a montage of the delirium and fevers I've barely lived through, she said it sounded like walking pneumonia. That's an expression I've heard, but didn't know it was really a thing. It sounds more impressive than "just another flu" so I'm going with it.

We chatted about other stuff, too, not just my miseries. I like Brenda, and when that happens, me liking someone, I like to take the conversation into uncharted territory. Thinking is better than boring chit-chat about the weather, so I asked, "Do you do anything political?"

"No, don't insult me," she said. Good answer. Anyone who finds political participation distasteful goes up a notch in my estimation.

Then I felt sick and didn't say much for a while, but when my wits semi-returned and neither of us had any customers, I said: "Tell me something you believe in wholeheartedly, that most people don't."

"Hmm," she said. "I'm not sure I have an answer to that." She was quiet for a moment, then said, "When I had cancer, they asked us all to tell why we wanted to recover and live. A stupid question, right? Who doesn't want to live? Everyone else said. Oh, to see my children grow up, to see more sunrises, and so on. Whatever. What crap. I said I wanted to live long enough to see the aliens land on this planet."

Clearly, Brenda rocks, but I should probably add this brief aside for you, dear reader: She's substantially older than me, and living with some man, so my liking her, and I do, is 100% platonic. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

After parking the fish-cart and coming home, I went straight to bed and straight to sleep. Dreamed the aliens had landed, and they wanted Brenda and I to "Take us to your leader," but all of Earth's leaders are stupid so we took the aliens to meet Hate Man instead.

From Pathetic Life #22
Saturday, March 2, 1996 

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life
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