The Body Files Its Resignation in October
The fever showed up on Tuesday like it always does—uninvited, lodged somewhere behind my eyes, turning the whole week into wet towels and ceiling-watching. By Friday I’d run out of things to do that didn’t require being upright. Every autumn, same week, same sweated-through sheets, same ceiling. My body submits its notice and I spend three days quietly dissolving.
I put out a call for suggestions. Not the aspirational sick-day stuff—nobody’s catching up on Proust at hour sixteen of enforced horizontal time. What do people actually do when the ibuprofen has worn off and ambient misery is the only weather? The answers were instructive. One rule before we begin: masturbation is temporarily banned.
Mission one: pose as an underage girl on a mid-noughties chat platform. Maintain the fiction until a 62-year-old elementary school principal has purchased you flights to the Maldives and you’re physically standing in Malé International Airport—then, and only then, reveal yourself. Mission two: wait for the sustained coughing to accidentally carve your stomach into a six-pack. If it doesn’t materialize, sue a pharmaceutical company. McDonald’s is also acceptable as a defendant.
Mission three: watch randomized cat videos until you catch yourself absentmindedly touching your crotch. That’s the natural stopping point; you’ll know it when it happens. Mission four: every episode of Family Guy played in reverse, notepad open, documenting the conspiracy theories that surface. They will. Mission five: jerk off. Spit on your hand first. Properly.
Mission six: talk a grandparent into bringing you a set of those little ceramic pig figurines. Eat one immediately, in front of them. Mission seven: reread Bukowski. If you don’t know who Bukowski is, play Pokémon instead—different roads, same destination, no judgment from me. Mission eight: Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming by M83 on continuous loop. It runs long enough that falling asleep mid-album is a genuine possibility, which is the entire point.
Mission nine: refresh your social feed every few seconds in sincere hope that someone has posted a cure for rhinovirus—one that tastes like rainbows, handles the dishes, and arranges no-strings sex. A Miley Cyrus nude is listed as an acceptable equivalent. I’m transcribing, not editorializing.
Mission ten: the ban is lifted. You’ve exhausted everything else—every series, every internet hole, every damp idle hour. Masturbate until your hands give out. You were going to eventually. It’s basically what illness was invented for. Even if you’ve started feeling suspiciously recovered in the last twenty minutes.