Nothing

Getting over a sickness now that had me breathing like death rattles. Asleep is the best I ever felt. I cough up green gobs of something, but it doesn't taste metallic like it used to. As I first showed symptoms of sickness, people at work told me I must have bad allergies. They tell me this to make themselves feel better. They're stuck in an office all day with me walking around, carrying my germs so close to their precious sterilized cubicles. I am the living incubator.

A sticky note was posted next to one office door ordering me not to enter. It is okay with me. I can cough on my hands and touch the copier. Whatever it is, it will go around anyway. You will be exposed no matter how hard you try.





I'm pretty sure this was the illness of the bagless vacuum dust; most likely an infection from something evil I sucked from my carpets. As I emptied the canister the weekend I got sick, I marveled at the dust strata, the different shades of gray running parallel in lifts. I wiggled the dust cakes and they released puffs of white garbage, which proceeded promptly to my lungs.

There is a smell of dog that lingers in my bedroom, probably from the previous tenant who locked some poor poopy-pants in there all day, slobbering and scratching stink particles all over the room. I proceeded to attack the smell with my empty vacuum. Thinking clean thoughts, I willed it to go away. The vacuum would work, I knew it.

The smell is still there. I don't know what to do.





I had almost recovered from the illness when I decided to mix root beer with something awful. It made me so sick to my stomach that it felt like I was trying to digest knives for days.


Baby, yes, it's good to eat dinner. You're silly. Did you forget, or were you not hungry?