I just want to start off by saying this is totally a one-time thing. I’m usually a very healthy person, I eat pretty well and I swear I do exercise, so really, it’s not my fault that I got this flu.
And yet, here I am, sick in my bed. I skipped three lectures today, I haven’t started on two of my essays due next week, and my friends haven’t seen my face in four days, but you know what I am doing? Writing this fucking article.
Look, I know what you’re gonna say, Amanda. I know you’ll say “Maeve you can take the week off” or “Don’t worry about it! I’d rather you feel better” or even, “Please Maeve, please stop texting me your fever-induced ideas for articles.” You know how I know that? Because these are all things you have said to me in the past few days.
But I know you don’t really mean it. I’m reading between the lines here, but I think the real message you’re trying to get across is “The Free Peach will fall apart without your article this week.” And I know that, I accept that, so here I am, writing your fucking article! I hope you’re happy!
(Brief sidebar, just to say that, one of the symptoms of the flu is body aches. This essentially means, your whole body hurts. Like what is the purpose of that? How the fuck does that help me beat this illness? Either way, here I am, slapping my aching fingers against this keyboard to write YOU this article.)
Technically, I don’t even know if it’s the flu. It could be lymphoma. What if it is? What if I fucking die? What if this bed is my deathbed? What if I’m spending my last few moments writing this article when I should be holding my loved ones close? That seems fitting. Die the way I lived. Toiling away under the whip of the printing press, the unceasing news cycle.
P.S. And why the hell doesn’t our health insurance cover the flu shot? What kind of insurance doesn’t cover the flu shot? If I had accepted that offer at The Daily Clog I wouldn’t have the flu right now.