Cold Rush

I think the worst thing about getting a cold is that plummeting gut-feeling on discovering the carrier monkey in your life (lets call him Brian for the sake of argument) is oozing at the seams with bacteria.

It’s an eye-rolling sense of “Oh great” that (upon reflection) is entirely justified.

Some people are capable of being ill and yet are considerate and self-aware enough stop themselves from infecting every poor sod they come into contact with. However I’m talking about Brian… who falls under the category of the other people. People who have no concept of hygiene and guarantee that soon you too will  be in the depths of misery and curled up in the fetal position while slathered in Vicks.

In an effort to battle this inevitable outcome you could spend time and money covering all available surfaces in boxes of tissues, pump-bottles of hand gel and towers of antibacterial wipes. You could have a heart to heart with Brian about being considerate while infectious with the latest plague. You could even lovingly hand-craft sock puppets and put on a show for him entitled “Use a tissue or I will kill you in your sleep.”
The sad fact is, regardless of your repeated and increasingly beseeching mental wails of “cover your f*%king mouth!” every time you hear Brian hack up a lung or sneeze unimpeded… by now his saliva will be catapulted over anything and everything.
If we had one of those lights that illuminates bodily fluids – your surroundings would undoubtedly resemble a Jackson Pollock painting.
And the Brian in your life will just carry on in total disease-ridden oblivion.
Because the awful truth is – the depth of his indifference is unquantifiable
And your fate is sealed.

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