collegiate diversion

You would say “Sam, you’re always sick.”

I guess that would be true. In your exaggerated, and truly undermining sense of everything, yes, I am always sick.

In middle school, I faked it. I would have my mother sign notes about headaches and runny noses so I could avoid the girls’ teasing at school.

Funny how during my evening of absolutely none and painful sleeping last night, I remembered that time they tried to set me up with this jock so I would fall on my face at the school dance, asking him to dance.

Imagine if I had telekinetic powers, and was covered in pigs’ blood. It would be just like that movie. Thankfully, i found out before that dance about their evil setup, and I have smartened up some since sixth grade.

In high school, I’ll admit it, I lied all the time about “illness.” Migraines, and bloody noses and such. I of course, had to up the anti of my exact sick symptoms. They were mostly “mental health” days, because on the weekends I’d cry and feel completely too drained for homeroom.

I bet a lot of you did that too.

At college, you don’t want to get sick. There is way too much going on in the real world. And way too much meaningless shit going on in the facebook world for your sickbed to be bothered with.

Admittedly, I indulged today when I should have been attending my politics class. That’s the only class I will miss this week, I promise!

So here is me, 19~years old and most~likely and obviously dying from the formidable flu. AVIAN FLU! But not really. I’m just ill. Big deal, that happens.

But not like this. In between classes, the lukewarm dormitory tea and the power naps, and my uncalled cellphone, in my single single room, in my single single life, it feels sort of lonely. Who will catch me when I pass out on the floor? Who will “ooh” and “poor kid” me over my gigantic sneezes, too big for this apartment?

Yeah, pity is underrated. It’s the phone calls that make it count. From home, and from my friends that didn’t see me in the dining hall today.

Isn’t that so conceited? That I miss the care and the looking after? I watched Sex and the City today, a lot of it, after French 202. So great, but so probably not healthy for me.

Our SINGLE protagonist, Carrie, complains about being alone. Some other characters cry about being single. And about what would happen if one of them died all alone in their apartment?! No one would find them, and their underfed cats would gnarl off half their face…

The good news is, I don’t have a cat.

I do have this floor, carpeted by a sea of used white tissues. No one’s hear to yell at me about the unsanitary~ness of the situation. And my clocks haven’t all been turned ahead the hour they should be.

I mean, here in flu~land, all logic is defied. And my life feels hidden.

My dear friend in Chicago, ahoy!, he encourages me that I am far from being a hermit. He says I am single woman, and I should ROAR! And it makes me realize, I should probably forget about my anxiety about all these troublesome men. And that I don’t look that great when I pass them, all sniffling and sneezing, in the halls.

Someone has to tell those beautiful women on Sex and the City, I know it makes for good television, but you’ve got to get over those awful, time~consuming, blatantly not~worth~the~time men.

(And my illness has halted my resolving the problem with this hyphen button, I am still using the ~)

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