Eh. You Again.

I don't get sick. Period. It just doesn't happen. This is not something that I usually brag about as I'm convinced it means I will avoid a lifetime of minor illnesses only to get taken out by the big guns - cancer, massive organ failure, getting eaten by a Grizzly Bear while on a camping trip* I pretended to be excited about because I'm dating an outdoorsy type and it's still in the early stages so this is when I try to convince him I'm a good sport because he's attractive and I want to make out - at a point further down the line. I'm not trying to be morbid or dramatic, but I'm about 110% convinced that I will die young and my passing will be epic. No stroke, no heart attack - I promise you, I'll either be eaten or explode. I'll probably be on the news. Maybe get my own Wiki page. And it's about fucking time. But until that day comes, no kitty cat upper respiratory infection shall penetrate this iron vessel. Or that's what I used to think. That's what I used to think before my whole head and chest got rocked - like, prison style banged by a nasty infectious gangsta known on the yard simply as Lil' Germ. He's been all up in me for about a week now and shows no signs of slowing down until a new bus load of fresh, clean meat shows up to play.

Last Sunday, my friend, John (pictured with me below as we posed with the new staff vending machine), called to see if I wanted to grab dinner. He said he wasn't feeling well and was craving a big bowl of hot soup. So we decided to hit up a local ramen joint and get down on some noodles. Naturally, since I cannot keep my hands to myself and without fail, think that everyones meal looks better than whatever it is that I ordered, I helped myself to slurp after slurp of his soup - despite his advice to stay away. Sure enough, almost exactly 24 hours later, my chest cavity ran into Lil' Germ alone in the showers and dropped the soap.

I don't know how long this is going to last - it's not letting up - just moving around to different parts of my body. My nose, throat, ears, and chest have all been assaulted thus far so I'm hoping it soon realizes that I'm nothing but used goods and relocates to the Hell it deserves to burn in for eternity since I have now missed out on the following activities due to its viral raping:

1) Annual Fluff Festival
2) A date (with a gay man...whatever...the better question is, when did you get so fucking nosey, Babs Walters?) to Kings of Pastry
3) A favorite brunch in all of Boston, duck confit hash, at the Ames Hotel
4) My favorite late night menu in all of Cambridge, featuring fried grits and hush puppies, at Hungry Mother
5) A dog birthday party on the Common that George Michael got invited to. Actually, I didn't mind missing this. See, I take George to the park every morning where he and a bunch of other dogs are allowed to run off their leashes. We usually stay for about half an hour and inevitably, people try to talk to each other - and me - not knowing or more likely, not caring, that I have no desire to talk to anyone at 6:30am in the morning - let alone a bunch of dog people who like to talk about all things dog. I forgot what we were saying...oh...the dog birthday party. Well, I want to continue to take George to the park because he loves it. He absolutely loves it. And I love him. So everyday, I swallow my attitude and play nice with the dog people so George can run around like  he's hopped up on crack and candy beans. And occasionally, one of these weird dog people will invite us to some weird dog activity and I feel like if I don't participate, it'll make our morning visits forever awkward. There was a dog birthday party in the Common on Wednesday night. We didn't go. We (or he) did go to the dog slumber party a few weekends back. Take it from me, picking up your dog from a slumber party and realizing chances are high to definitely yes that he got laid the night before and you did too (did not at all) does wonders for the 'ol self-esteem.

Woah. What happened here? Oh, that's right...I got sick of talking about being, well, sick...mix that up with a shot of ADD and next thing you know we're talking about animals nabbing tail (get it? tail? hehehe).

And my new computer! Yes, everyone, I traded in my laptop from 2004 that didn't even work and served as more of a prop so that when people came over they would think I was the kind of smart person who uses a computer and doesn't just keep it for a coaster in the morning while drinking coffee or a thing to sit in front of and pretend to be reading when really you're looking over it and into your neighbor's window because it looks like they have HBO and you heard Entourage was like, so fucking good, bro! this season.

I have a bit of a "project" I'm working on at the moment. It wont materialize until January 2012 - but it will require a lot of attention and research between now and then - and since my boss caught me watching hoarding shows on my computer the last time I claimed to be researching something  - I decided it was time to invest in a new piece so that I could do the majority of the leg work attached to my "project" from home. What is this "project", you ask? Well, I can't tell you that right now. But I can say it is probably the coolest thing I've ever done/will ever do in my life and when everything is a go - I'll definitely share all the glorious details. That being said, that's not what we were saying. We were talking about this new computer. Once I decided I was ready and willing to invest in it, I bopped down to the Apple Store and had this conversation with a guy named Nick Cannon (you know I didn't let that one go):

Nick Cannon: Hey there! Can I help you find something today?

Me (looking at his name tag): That's funny that your name is Nick Cannon.

NC (silent for about 5 seconds and then annoyed): Can I help you?

Me: Well, Nick Cannon, I need a new computer. And I like this silver one.

NC: Cool - so we got a MacBook Pro fan on our hands! Video, graphic design, editing and production kinda gal, right?

Me: I really have no idea what just came out of your mouth.

NC: Okay, can you tell me a little bit about your computer needs?

Me: Hmmmm...internet and I want it to look cool.

And the rest is history. I did have to wait a few days to pick it up because they wanted to put stuff on it or sync it or something else I didn't really care about. I simply remembered that I was to come back on Wednesday and when I turned it on, it would start dancing for me or showering me with money or spraying whipped cream directly into my mouth  - all the things I expect it to do for being a small box that costs as much as my monthly rent. So, when I did indeed arrive at the scheduled time, and didn't see Nick Cannon anywhere in the store, I approached another associate we'll call Not Nick Cannon:


Me: Hi. Is Nick Cannon here?

NNC: Aw, Nick! Nick's crazy, right?!?

Me: ???

NNC: Oh, sorry - it's just that Nick is like, wild, man! Totally nuts! He's out today. Can I help you with something?

Me: Nick Cannon told me to come in today to pick up my Mac Bro Book.

NNC: ???

Me: Mac Book Bro.

NNC: ???

Me (pointing to the display table): It looks like that one.

NNC: Right. Um, did you know about our free training classes for beginners every night at 6? Just if you're interested.

Me: Is it required?

NNC: Well, no...

Me (wiping nose across the back of hand): I really can't. I'm supposed to go to a dog birthday party tonight.








* I've been camping once. When I was forced to at summer camp at the age of 8. While we typically slept in beds inside of cabins, one night of the term, they took us out on a real camping trip - where we slept in tents, on the hard ground. Because nature has always been out to get me, I was fast asleep when I suddenly awoke to something lodged in my ear canal and going fucking crazy trying to escape. I immediately started banging on my head, shaking it furiously, but nothing worked - whatever it was was not getting out - just flipping out - inside my ear. I finally decided to wake up my counselor to see if she would be able to help me. Again, I was eight years old. There was something trying to kill my brain by way of my ear. I was crying, it was the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere and I was scared shitless. My counselor, who was supposed to be a loving, supportive, comforting mentor at camp, was more of a 19 year-old drunk sorority girl looking to score in the woods with the guy counselor a few tents over - and quickly sent me back to bed telling me I was having a nightmare and it would be rude of me to scare the other girls with my silly story. So I did as I was told and laid on the ground with a fucking creature in my ear all night long until I could get up in the morning and try again to convince my hungover counselor of my ailment. Sure enough, after much pleading, she poured "rubbing alcohol" (Fuzzy Navel wine cooler backwash) in my ear and a huge ant came swimming out. For the next three years that I attended that summer camp, I made sure to get sick on the one overnight getaway in the woods. I got to watch TV and eat popsicles in the infirmary while those chumps were peeing in holes and sleeping on dirt. And that is why I do not camp. Thank you. Goodnight.