The lede would have been, “Day 1: Dear Diary, what in the actual fuck?” While my brain was catching some z’s last night, filing away random shit that will come back to visit me in future dreams that make absolutely no sense, my body was invaded by a battalion of bat shit-laden bird puke-drenched mutant viral compounds. They never made a sound, but, Mother of God, did they ever make a fucking mess; They closed all the windows, turned up the thermostat to 103, put a blowtorch to every last bit of my senses of smell and taste, and kicked off a riot in my otherwise blameless digestive systems south of my belly button on their way to setting up camp in my lungs. I mean… Who the fuck even does that? I woke up at 6:30, made it 2 hours, and gave myself over to Beatrice for the rest of the day. If I survive the night, I’ll be back tomorrow to share with you just how ugly and disgusting the otherwise gloriously beautiful human body can get when it’s under siege from invading evil satanic forces inciting panicked purges through every human orifice.
Day 2: Dear Diary, I bet you didn’t know this, but apparently, the human body can simultaneously both cook and freeze. I came by this revelation well after midnight last night while having vivid dreams of the Night King (Game of Thrones) fighting a cage match with the Ghost Rider; each taking turns torching then freezing my slowly dying carcass. What actually woke me up was the sound of my own teeth chattering, but the closer I got to consciousness, the more I realized I was sweating my ass off, and I remember telling Beatrice how much I would like to throw the white surrender flag and be done with it. And in my delirium, I thought for a second I heard her chuckle as she said to me, “Sweetie, this is only day two… The misery and suffering you are going to endure haven’t even finished setting up camp yet; you haven’t even begun to fucking suffer.”It’s worth noting here, as it was yesterday, that I was able to Weeble and wobble for roughly 3 hours today before giving myself back over to Beatrice. I remember that stretch of puberty where 20 hours in bed was completely normal, and by God, I will not be judged for finding comfort and joy in this happy little reunion. Food has crossed my mind once or twice, and I’ve even dabbled a little bit into the world of dry toast, but it was short-lived; chewing on something with the texture of cardboard that has absolutely no flavor, not a drop of saliva to be found in my rapidly desiccating body, immediately woke up my stomach who was quick to point out I was treading in shark-infested digestive waters and better put that shit down and back the fuck away before it was too late.
Day 3: Dear Diary, who the fuck needs mushrooms when you can spend all day tripping on the buzz you get when your body is eating itself from the inside out? Seems to me that is more of a natural high – probably fucking organic for all I know – than something that grows out of a cow patty out in a pasture that bleeds purple when you scrape the stalk to make sure it’s good to go. And while I met it, let’s be honest, there’s something about going without food or water for a couple of days to remind you that death is nothing to be afraid of… It comes to all of us eventually, but at least with COVID, so far anyway, by the time your mortality closes in on you, you’re already on your front porch with your packed SpongeBob lunch box, waiting for Aken to roll up in his Papyrus boat and whisk you away across the Nile to the shores of eternal hell that await you on the other side.
Day 4: Dear Diary, I’m not sure if this is even a “thing,” but if it is, I am now an official member of the “Double Broken Fever” Club. At least, that’s what I could swear I heard Beatrice say as I slowly crawled on my hands and knees into delirious semi-consciousness sometime around 4:30 this morning. I mean… I remember the first fever breaking in the early hours of day two, but I honestly don’t even remember spiking a fever last night, although I clearly must have since I was drenched in sweat when I got up today. And by the way, I wonder how likely it is that our brains intentionally shut off all communication with our sense of smell in order to protect us from the stench that surely emanates from every fucking pore of our fetid, disease-riddled bodies. Someone should look into that. Oh, and one last thing… While my unconditional love for Beatrice remains completely intact, I’ve had about all I can fucking take of her being right about how this COVID thing was going to progress. Just sayin’.
Day 5: Dear Diary, if the internet is to be believed (although the world has learned the hard way that you really can’t trust anything the internet has to say about COVID), the worst is allegedly behind us now; I finally mustered the strength for a hot shower, and Beatrice and I have kissed and made up. I have reached the “food curious” stage of recovery (I still can’t smell or taste a fucking thing), but in light of several urgent requests from my fat storage lockers having sounded the alarm about my man boob cup size having reached the dangerously small A-cup size, I have started dipping my toes into the icy waters of food consumption with guarded enthusiasm. I have never been much of a puker but don’t let that fool you; the number of ways the body can give the bums Rush to food input it does not approve of knows no bounds, and, having just spent five days running that gauntlet, I’m happy to take a conservative approach for the time being.
Day 6: Dear Diary, even though I will remain contagious, technically, for another 4 days, this will be my last entry. I have been told by a lot of people that taste and smell often take many days to return, and, according to a few, these senses aren’t quite the same ever again. This worries me; if I start hating chocolate and loving yellow squash, I’m going to lose my fucking shit. I mean… Seriously… To walk naked and ashamed in a shroud of self-loathing and near-death decay, dancing all around your own grave wanting desperately to fall in but being forced to survive anyway, I think it’s only fair that we are left with some modicum of our original dignity and self-respect intact and not just some hollow sense of accomplishment or some sort of fucked up plastic participation trophy with a pretty blue ribbon just for having survived with nothing good to show for it. What the fuck is up with that? Seriously?
