Early this week, I woke up with the sniffles. Since I fell asleep with the window open, I figured that allergies had finally struck for the first time in 2024. The sniffles turned into sinus pain, which turned into muscle pain, which turned into full body weakness. And then, shocker, I tested positive for Covid-19 for the third time.
My senses of taste and smell didn't abandon me, yay! But this round was almost a brutal as my first battle with the coronavirus. Wild, almost migraine-level, headaches prevented me from watching movies (so no movie content this week), seeing with both eyeballs consistently, and napping most of the time. And then there were other things.
On two occasions, a song I've never heard before (one a wordless hooky pop tune, the other, EDM) manifested their way into my brain, and I found myself humming them as I exited from some liminal plane into consciousness.
Later, a giraffe, the height of two blue-bottle flies fucking, walked across my coffee table when I tried to get up from the couch, and told me in Homer Simpson's voice, "Stay. Good boy. Good boy. Good boy. Good boy. Good boy." I was in no shape to argue, so I did what the giraffe told me to do.
Before puberty struck, I would hallucinate when I was very sick. A pine tree grew out of a bonfire. The creatures on my Animal Crackers blanket would actively change cages, all except the gorilla. Marmaduke walked into my bedroom, and then looked at me as his skin fell off and he dissolved into a puddle of blood and fat.
Thus, Homer the Giraffe was a welcome experience. A good trip.
So what I'm saying is, Balblair is going to have to wait until next week.
