Care of Cell 44

Unless you’ve somehow heard my rather pitiful attempts at coughing, you probably wouldn’t know that I’ve been sick for the last few days. I’m talking full on hallucinating that Johnny-Depp-is-trying-to-kill-me type sickness*. So sick that my entire, somewhat drug assisted viewing of the Oscars consisted of me repeating ‘What the fuck is up with Ellen Page’s weird ass parted bangs?’ over and over. I couldn’t even feign disgust at Casey Affleck and his dreamy hair losing Best supporting actor to Javier Bardem’s decidedly less dreamy mop

Now, that I’m (for the most part) recovered, I can see the great thing about short-term sickness: When you’re better it’s

a) unfucking debatable. Where as opinions may differ on the relative merits on award ceremonies when there is no ‘best male hair’ category, you just can’t argue when your sickness is alleviating. There’s a feeling that you can’t reason with because:

1) It’s right

2) Feelings don’t technically exist, thus you look insane talking that cannot talk back. Then again, for the longest time I didn’t think Jay Leno’s mouth existed behind his chin. ZING!

For me this feeling became evident when I started feeling the tiniest bit guilty that I hadn’t moved from bed for the best part of three days.

b) It’s a good feeling. You notice things that you take for granted. For example, I never noticed how great a song Alameda was, but bam, there it is,

I still want to marry Ellen Page though, I don’t care what her bangs look like. There’s a joke in there somewhere I’m too lazy to find it.

Also, apologies for this almost Sex and the City type post. Suddenly I have the need to fill a pair of pumps and talk about things that 18-45 women can totally relate to.

*Sadly, that is dead serious. It’s my most vivid memory from Sunday Night.