Warning: This month’s edition of “The Many Faces of Manny” will be explicit. While I don’t normally employ curse words and “blue” humor in my writing I am going to today because I’m excessively sick. Thus, my rant will be uncontrolled due to fevers and chills, immense bodily pain and general confusion. So please, hide your sisters, hide your wives [and references to other viral videos] because I am about to flip out about how annoying it is to be sick. If you know me, then you know missing three straight days of work means that I’m actually quite ill. So I feel not only sick but pathetic, unmanly and weak. Which I hate. So without further ado, please continue on…if you dare.
So I have what people would commonly refer to as a “Stomach Flu.” But what in the holy fuck is a stomach flu? Well, it’s not the flu. That’s for sure. Because I got a God damn flu shot yet here I sit with a fever over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Great work, science. According to my doctor it could be a number of things. First, it could be Viral Gastroenteritis. That would mean an acute illness brought on by a virus that I somehow ingested. Second, it could be salmonella, which is also acute (because if you have chronic salmonella you’re a fucking idiot). I think we all know how I could have gotten that one. Third, it could be ulcerative colitis which is a chronic condition. This makes sense to me. I have been diagnosed with ulcer(s) and I have been diagnosed with colitis (separate incidents). So one plus one still fucking equals two, right? You would think. My doctor didn’t think it was worth exploring further in an effort to prevent this catastrophe from happening yet again. Fourth, and this is my own theory, I have some fucking hellish bug bites on my ankle. I found some small, weird spider in my bed a few days after that happened so I assume that this little eight-legged piece of shit bit me, infected me with venom and I am now either turning into Spiderman or dying. For now, let’s just assume I’m turning into Spiderman because that’s a notch better than being dead but not much. I do not want to look like that Toby Maguire pansy.
So, fuck. Where am I? Oh yea. I got this “anti-spasm” medication that’s prescribed to people with gastrointestinal distress and people with Parkinson’s. So maybe I have fucking Parkinson’s now? Oddly enough, I dreamt about my grandmother who passed away from Parkinson’s in some fever dream bullshit last night so maybe that’s the sign. How the fuck am I going to write while I’m shaking? I guess I will have to get some dictation software because God forbid I let down the twelve to fifteen people that count on me to publish articles on a consistent basis.
There are also a lot of things you learn when you spend a lot of time at your apartment. This is time I never would have spent at my apartment if I hadn’t been sick. Because my wife and I both have jobs. Adult jobs. So we are not at home during “business hours.” It’s the reason all the stupid Brooklyn hipster dog adoption places shun us; our rescued dog would be left alone for more than two hours at a time (God forbid!). So, we never know what happens in and around our apartment during those hours. Well I learned. First, my neighborhood has a large, loud population of people that do not work. These are not the kind of people you want to hang around with unless getting stabbed is your idea of a great afternoon. They are extremes of the spectrum. Now, I was in bed so I only heard those that are loud and enjoy getting into hysterical arguments and fistfights during “work” hours. So now I have to find a new place to live. Thanks a lot New York real estate. Asshole.
Another thing I learned: my building doesn’t have any fucking heat during business hours. None. It just doesn’t even exist. Now, we rarely have heat during the hours that humans are home so it’s not surprising but I can tell you what it is: it’s fucking cold. And when you have a fever of one hundred and three and you’re laying in bed shaking, trying to stomach small sips of Gatorade to keep your electrolytes up heat is a fucking appreciated fucking modern comfort. I read a shit ton of books about the Civil War and let me tell you, if this was 1861 I would be fucking dead. There’s no way I would have survived this. Inaccessibility to clean water would have led to me being written off and left to die of dysentery after which my family would bury me about eight inches beneath the soil just due west of our bean patch.
Anyways, fuck this. I feel terrible. That’s this month’s Many Faces of Manny. Tune in next month when I do something more intelligent and thought provoking (unless I die—which, at this point, honestly feels like a possibility). And if one more person asks if I’ve “eaten at Chipotle” I’m going to murder them in which case I will be in prison and this column will be on sabbatical until my parole. Please start a GoFundMe for my parole account.