Livin, Laughin, Lovin… and Wheezing

Viruses can absolutely suck my big left toe. In the past two years, I’ve had mystery plagues, Adenovirus, Hand-Foot-and-Mouth, Covid… and not one of them just shows up and leaves like a decent guest. No, they move in. They bring plus ones: ear infections, bronchitis, that cough that’s now basically my roommate. And they don’t just “drop by” — they unpack their crap, take the good towels, and leave wet footprints on the carpet of my soul. You don’t get over them, you just… learn to live with them like a bad roommate who owes you three months’ rent and uses your shampoo.

Has the world always been like this? I don’t know, probably. But lately it feels like there’s a new disease every Tuesday, and I’m somehow the first one to beta test it. We’re basically living in a giant Petri dish of snot, crumbs, regret, and bad decisions — the kind you can’t Clorox wipe away no matter how hard you scrub. I just wanna go one week without wondering if my snack comes with a free side of strep. And don’t even get me started on the Google rabbit holes. One cough, one weird rash, and suddenly I’m convinced I’ve contracted some Victorian plague that died out in 1893 and came back just to personally ruin my weekend.

I have never in my life been this sick. Before all this, maybe I’d get one cold a year. Now? I’m basically the CDC’s summer intern. My immune system is that tired bouncer at a dive bar who’s seen too much, lets anyone in, and just prays no one starts a fight. Unfortunately, the fight is always inside my body.

And let’s be real — germs are relentless little motherfuckers. I can do everything right: meds, hydration, staying cool, and I still end up laid out like a wet towel someone forgot in the washer. If one more microscopic menace so much as breathes in my direction, I’m buying a bubble, moving into it, and making visitors speak to me through a Ring camera.

Everyone kept saying, “Oh, COVID isn’t that bad now. You’ll be fine. Two days and you’re better.” Yeah, well — day three of a fever that refuses to break. Yes, I’m doing all the things. Still feel like death in a Walmart moo moo. And because life’s hilarious, I’m still recovering from Hand, Foot, and Mouth. At this point, I’m convinced I’m running a pop-up Airbnb for every germ in a five-mile radius — and apparently, the reviews are glowing because they just keep coming back.

My immune system has rage-quit and ghosted me. My joints ache, my head’s full of cement, my sinuses are cemented shut, and my body feels like it’s staging a mutiny. I’m dead. Not like “haha, dramatic” dead — I mean “get my affairs in order” dead. If the next plague so much as sneezes on me, I’m gone.