2am: Having spent yesterday hurling my innards out, I am awakened by a now familiar urge. I toddle to the bathroom. I throw up the electrolyte enriched water drink I was given yesterday. Even had I not been ill with a deadly jungle fever, the pineapple pre-teen girl perfume toxicant would have exited my system in some violent way or another. Hallucinations ensue.
7am: Wake up to the sound of my roommate’s nostrils whistling as she sleeps. Kick off my blankets and debate whether self-disembowelment is a step too far. Fantasize that there are lizards crawling on the walls. (Note: There are lizards crawling on the walls.)
9am: We go downstairs for breakfast. An attack of nausea and the call of my bed force me upstairs before I can enjoy my toast.
9:01am: Agony.
11:20: A philosophical moment. My roommate and I have a serious discussion about our personality traits. We decide she is a wicked prankster, and I am unconscionably arrogant, in particular with regards to fixing toasters. We reaffirm our desire to be friends forever.
I then go downstairs to return my hoarded teacups. Am stopped by our host grandmother, who remarks on the weight I have already lost. Fatal tropical conditions can have this effect, I am told.
12: The feeling of untidiness overwhelms me. I search for my hairbrush, but am waved off by Jacqui to look in the other part of our suite. I search, and fail to dig up my hairbrush. I return. The hairbrush is balanced next to her side of the bed. I cannot summon the energy to react, and fall into a stupor. Occasionally emerging from this catatonia, I pass the time away looking for split ends.
1:30pm: Continue to read my humorous story collection. There are more misses than hits in this rather hastily dubbed book. My favorite story is by far the dry account of Fran Lebowski’s day. It is titled “My Day: An Introduction of Sorts.” I long to possess such brazen irreverence.
This makes me think of all the helpful feedback I received in high school about adapting my writing to a more bland, impersonal tone. We could all take this opportunity to make a list of the bland, impersonal writers we know, love and cherish. I’m sure your list, like mine, would be utterly scintillating.
2:30pm: A quiet moment is taken to appreciate the peaceful bird song and explosions coming from the Indian Army’s shooting grounds located to the north.
3:35pm: I head outside to the balcony to admire the view of the Himalayas and do some serious reading. Several minutes into this activity I turn to find my roommate gazing intently at me out the window. Unlike most humans, I react in a calm manner (Note: I am accustomed to antics far more concerning) and invite her onto the balcony. She accepts this invitation.
3:45pm: A revealing moment. My roommate shares the reason for her furious typing. She has been taking a “future goals and career traits” test designed to clarify what attributes she wants to develop or let alone. Some examples from her list of “irrelevant traits” include “using foresight,” “developing hand dexterity,” and “operating machinery.” This explains why she failed to make the toaster work this morning.
3:55pm: Another skill clearly lacking is closing doors behind oneself.
4:18pm: My roommate leaves to go buy coca cola. This absence does not benefit me as a) There is nothing of hers I am capable of eating b) She left all the doors open. I take a nap. This proves boring. I cut my hair. This goes well. I wash my feet. I reread the humorous story collection. I find a dominoes pizza box stuffed inside one of the pillows.
4:47pm: Roommate returns bearing junk food. Her excuse for failing to bring me gifts: “You’re sick, and I didn’t want to make you throw up.” True, but I could always stash it for happier days. Sadness ensues. She proceeds to eat her bags of chips and drink the coca cola in a manner which recalls a garbage disposal truck. My sarcastic remarks only exacerbate the situation.
6:03pm: I go over all the funny pictures on my computer. By the fiftieth time they have ceased to be amusing, and the humorous story collection has proved itself tedious and frustrating. It is worth mentioned at this point that my clothing consists of a beguiling lacy nightgown (Note: Which wasn’t intended for newly-emaciated invalids), and has not be changed for a full day. I imagine this will not vary for the duration of my affliction.
7:13pm: I write a short piece on my precocious infancy, and the subtle (Note: or not so) decline since those golden years.
7:45 While waiting for dinner Jacqui and I cuddle on the couch. As she is missing her dog, she requests that I pant and make general canine-like sounds. I refuse. She insists. This indignity continues for another fifteen minutes. Then dinner! Dinner is strictly limited to yogurt, rice and lassi for me. Perhaps a third of what I am given ends up consumed, as my nausea, headache and disgust at being treated like a dog overwhelm me. But don’t worry, I am loved.
8:45pm: I begin Death Of A Salesman. Between Jacqui and I, we have, in the last two days, read Pygmalion, 100 Years of Solitude, Humorous Stories Collection, The Color Purple, and Death of A Salesman. With regards to the HSC, they claim to have “over 70 hilarious tales.” I counted seven. A woman is a tough judge in any comedic situation, and when you add indian stomach plagues to the picture, very little is droll, much less hilarious.
10:07pm: Death Of A Salesman proves too depressing and frustrating for my sensibilities.
10:30pm: I am left in the darkened room to sleep. Instead I rehearse various reprimands for those who have been disturbing Jacqui and I. They are ferociously castigated. Having won all the imaginary arguments in my head, I drift off to sleep. I proceed to entertain my roommate with my gargles and sleep talk, particularly my impression of a therapist.
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