A Loafing Couch, A Jug of Cough Syrup & Thou
How feeling sick as a dog made me a brilliant writer
This was my thirty-third day of hacking and coughing. Not to worry. The computer screen doubles as a sneeze guard.
When one is laying prone sick on the couch unable to participate in the corporeal joys of life, too eye-achy even to pry one’s lids open to the visual stimuli of screen time, one must make the best of the situation and rely on the inner adventure of imagination.
It’s like deluxe cable TV without subscription fees.
My particular sick gourd generated a seemingly endless stream of strange and fascinating ideas.
Also of snot.
But in a glass-half-full moment, I determined to make the best of it.
Edgar Allen Poe fueled his eerie stories with alcohol and opium. Aldous Huxley wrote of shifting perceptions with the help of mescaline. Lewis Carol may or may not have partaken in medicinal opiates, but he certainly set Alice off on an adventure with pills and magic ‘shrooms.
Me? I had fever dreams.
It all started the way many fairy tales do, with a kiss.
And this was no ordinary smooch. This was the sloppy lipped smack of a toddler leaving a trail of viral matter upon my right cheek…
