There are times that I seriously reconsider my decision to do a daily project. This is one of those days. Whether I’ll come home too intoxicated or completely run out of time, the last thing I want to do is tap into whatever well of creativity resides in my head. Today it’s more based around my impaired medical state. Things haven’t gotten much better from yesterday and it’s sapping my will to write and/or live. My eyes hurt. It hurts for me to look at things, move them from side to side or blink. My throat is constricted. I don’t know whether something in there is swollen or I’ve just got a nasty infestation of mucus, but breathing/eating is more difficult than it has any right to be. I’m simultaneously too hot and cold. I’m shivering, but sweating. If I wear too much I just start leaking sweat and getting static shocks from everything in arm’s reach. My brain feels like someone’s driven a large metal spike in and they’re moving it around just to provoke constant pain.
My skin is sensitive. Anything it touches feels like someone’s scraping nails over it. My muscles are aching all over. Any movement, whether it’s turning my head or bracing myself to stand sends little jolts of harsh sensation throughout my body. It barely feels like they’re strong enough to hold me up. My ability to walk is shaky. I can do it, but it’s not steady or defined by purpose. I make my way to where I need to be like a man 60 years my senior. The dizziness doesn’t help either. I’ve got very little sense of equilibrium and keep bumping into things if my hand isn’t there to keep me moving straight. I’m having trouble eating. In a bizarre turn of events, I’ve got no appetite. That’s how you know I’m sick. I couldn’t finish either my morning porridge or the chicken soup I handily cooked up during the weekend. I’ve been trying to constantly drink water, keep my fluids up. Thing is, I’ve spent most of the day in bed sweating. Not much sleep to be had and the little sleep I have achieved has been marred by vivid repetitive insane fever dreams. At some stage I woke up and my fingers were wrinkly from bathing in the pool of sweat on my belly.
I haven’t left the house, because I haven’t thought myself capable of it. It also begs mentioning that today was the first massive snowfall. Constant little puffs of frozen rain have cascaded down on busy Toronto. From what I’ve heard, the city core was madness. It would’ve been nice to get outside because I own nothing in the way of pain meds. I feel like today’s self-serving wallow-fest could’ve been ameliorated with some good ol’ fashioned modern medicine. Perhaps I would’ve whined and moaned a little less anyway. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow morning as to whether or not I face the world. I feel guilty taking sick time off work this soon into my hire, but in this state I’m certain I wouldn’t be a lick of use. I’m not in a place where I’m capable of accomplishing tasks. I’ve spent the day re-watching comfort shows, too hollow to be able to pick up on anything cerebral or challenging. Revisiting season 1 of You’re the Worst got me through most of it. Likely my favourite non-animated comedy of the year. The chemistry between its cast is appallingly great, it’s littered with clever lines, tight framing and a perfect musical score. The show gets it so right, but very few people I know seem to have jumped on board. It’s not too late, guys.
Speaking of late, it’s probably time for me to lie back for more sleepy, sweaty insanity. I’m hoping to kick this tout de suite, not least of all because of our aquarium work Christmas party on Saturday. I’ve been chomping at the bit to go and now that it’s there on a platter, I don’t want my body to reject the invitation for me. Night night guys.