Do you ever have one of those days where your head is in a fog and you can’t seem to step above it? That’s me. I woke up with a clogged, runny nose and a cottony head. I decided to wear a cute gray, distressed sweatshirt and jeans to work because I wanted to be as close to pajamas as possible, but I put a button-down underneath the sweater to take it to workplace appropriate. No one noticed. No one cared.
The first thing I think of when I have a head cold is a story a teacher told me in high school. He had a penchant for tangents, and this particular one was about as tangential as you could get. He told us about—decades earlier—when his wife was pregnant and had a head cold, they went to this Eastern European holistic doctor. The doctor swirled a Q-tip in cocaine—I might be remembering this wrong—and swished it around the wife’s nostrils. Then, he took a metal rod, shoved it up her nostril, and cracked it against the top of her nose. I guess the mucus collects there in a head cold, and that got rid of it. I have literally no idea if this story happened, or if I’m even telling this story correctly.
Side bar: this teacher had a hot son who went to school with us. That’s not really necessary, but I wanted you all to know.
So armed with that tertiary knowledge, I…I didn’t really change any of my habits. I didn’t snort cocaine or shove things up my nose except vast amounts of toilet paper because I’m too poor for Kleenex. And I popped a decongestant, a painkiller, and a mucus thinner in a Holy Trinity Hail Mary in order to knock this bitch out of my system.
I’ve been ill more times in the span of three months in England then I’ve been in two years in America. I’m not saying that England is making me ill. I’m just saying England is slowly killing me by mucus overload.
I bought Adele’s new album. First, I was disappointed that it wasn’t on Spotify. Second, I decided I would download it illegally. Then I decided to support my R&B pop goddess and I bought the album. Rather, I bought the album with my mom’s credit card. But still, I supported the artist. And 25 will be my theme-music for the fake television show in my head for approximately the next week. All I need is an Adele Christmas album to really make 2015 end in a win. We could call it Jingle Adeles or We Wish You Adele-y Christmas.
I watched The Way We Were because I’ve been watching Sex and the City and the season two finale ends in essentially an homage to The Way We Were. And I really enjoyed it, and not just in a “I have to enjoy this because it’s a cinematic classic” way, like the way I liked Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Omg, Breakfast at Tiffany’s stans, you better not come for me. But The Way We Were was great because a) Barbra Streisand’s nails are fabulous and her acting is superb, b) Robert Redford is a total babe, and c) it doesn’t end in necessarily the contrived “boy and girl end up together happily ever after” way. It ends beautifully and more realistically, and it also allows for a female lead to not have her ending dependent on happiness with a male lead.
Alright, I think I’m gonna go make tea and watch more Sex and the City. I don’t even really enjoy it that much. I don’t know why I can’t stop watching it. What’s happening? Is this Stockholm syndrome? Am I okay? Send help if I don’t Tweet within 12 hours.