11 March 2007

Not Feeling The Flu

Ick.

I am just now reaching the tail end of what has been a horrendous excursion into the depths of the FLU. Wednesday night, after a delicious ramen dinner at Rai Rai Ken, I noticed my throat beginning to close up on the chilly walk back to Union Square. Feeling more fatigued than should be normal from soup or edamame after ending a conversation with my friend Lexy- who had just gotten over a harrowing bout with Pneumonia himself- my paranoid hypochondria switched into overdrive, and I was in bed by 10:00 PM... I didn't realize then I'd hardly leave the bed voluntarily until today. Well, that's not entirely true: I made two trips to Duane Reade for juice and medicine, both of which were followed by visits to my neighborhood video store for rentals:

Jesus Camp

Stranger Than Fiction

The Science of Sleep

then...

All About My Mother

The Boys of Baraka

and the one DVD I always look at, pick up, carry around for a second, then put down:

The Brown Bunny.

Um, without launching into full-on movie review mode, let me just say this: Chloe Sevigny's blowjob skills do not merit sitting uncomfortably through nearly an hour and a half of Vincent Gallo driving around, pissing, showering, briefly petting a kitten in a pet store (possibly the film's highlight for this cat lover) and having completely awkward interactions with people- which I suppose should be expected of Mr. Gallo. If you've fumbled around with this DVD in the store wondering if it's worth the hype, just sing the Public Enemy song to yourself and put it back down.

So, I am not sure if my headache was exacerbated by my little film festival (signs point to yes), but it grew absolutely unbearable. Ever feel like your head is a laundry machine, and you can add extra quarters for tingling dizziness, throbbing pressure along the surface of your skull, or a film of cold sweat? The homeopathic remedy I found did help curtail the chills and fever to an extent, but the golf ball of my swollen right gland tore into my flesh every time I swallowed, making the consumption of anything other than soup excruciating.



That's right, the adorable nun Rosa from All About My Mother was nowhere to be found in my time of crisis,



nor, as my luck would have it, was that her line.

Anyway, I am being spat out in one piece at the other end, despite not feeling quite back to normal, and luckily, I am no longer hallucinating insects on my kitchen floor; I made damn sure of it by sweeping it this morning with my newfound energy.