Feuding II

Dear Body,

What the hell?  It's our one day off.  We get to sleep in.  Do you know what that means?  We do not have any reason to be awake.  Like none, no responsibilities.  Whatsoever.  I'm not even functioning at the capacity of a hand puppet.  So what are you doing?

There is no reason for this.  We didn't even get in till almost dawn, it doesn't make sense.  Even less when you consider the gratuitous amount of alcohol involved.  In case you need a refresher, for normal bodies: more of that usually equates to more time unconscious, not less.  Making zombie-face at the wall is not what needs to be happening right now.

I will fight you to the death,
Brain

Feuding I

Dear Brain,

Seriously.  It's 4:14 AM, we're exhausted.  We're in bed, ready to shut down, why won't you just stop?  No, I get it.  You're important to this operation, but really, who the hell needs to have thoughts about nothing jerking them into wakefulness when they're falling asleep?  This is the opposite of our goal.  It's not even relevant to anything going on.  At all.  Ever.  

What the hell is wrong with you?  Do you know how hard it is to even get this far in the sleeping process; how much we've been looking forward to it?  Do you appreciate what we're trying to tell you?  Limbs heavy, Eyes don't want to open, Brain...being a sociopath towards the rest of the team.  

You start off doing so well too, it's hard to tell if you're genuinely tweaked or just exceptionally malicious, "[...]I'll remember to do that tomorrow.  Mm, bed so soft and warm, not like...not-beds...so...night...things... ... ... ... ... ... Acorns!  They wear little berets."

What.  The.  Hell.  You need to stop.  Not okay.  And worse, it's often when you know we got to get up in a few hours.  You know this.  It's worse than the time you woke us up because you figured out the solution in a puzzle was to jump.  To jump.  You jag.

Sincerely,

Body

This is a Title

So, guess who's sick? You could probably name any number of people and be correct, but this is my blog and being self-absorbed I was referring to me.

It happened as colds do.
19:59, Monday
Me: What a great night to be healthy.

20:00, Monday
Body: Ha-ha! I'm going to punch you in the face with disease! All that energy you thought you had? It's gone now, sucka! Let's see you walk home after work now, [censored for posterity]!

It retrospect it was more likely the illness cussing me out but it felt like a betrayal of my body. I thought body and me were getting on great, but apparently that was all a horrible lie.

Dear Body,
If this is about that thing we ate… Get over it. I said I was sorry and wouldn't do it again. In the near future.

Why do you think I take you running every night and not eat like my fat inner child demands? It's not just for our exterior, dangit. (Which, I have to give you credit, is awesome. So. Keep that up.)

Oh, and we're still going rock climbing Thursday, so you better shape up because that'll suck for you too if you keep this attitude up.
Love (but not right now),
Cole

Also, apparently being barely lucid puts me in the mood for house music. Rare. Odd. Going with it.

UPDATE: So...working out at the gym? Not something you're supposed to do mid-fever. The good news is I didn't fall off the treadmill, per se. My jeans also remained on despite my feeble efforts as I decided it got too hot.

UPDATE: I have found the meds. Buckleys was not created for doing shots.

UPDATE: Have been given one command: DO NOT GO TO SLEEP BEFORE UPS GETS HERE. So of course my body's all "You know we should do? Sleeeeeeep. Sleep! I'll make you feel so good, baby. Oh, oh! Are you going to blink? Watch me turn that blink turn into a nap. Don't even act like you don't want this."

UPDATE:  ...UPS never showed.   Those motherf-!

UPDATE:  "WHY ARE YOU NOT PANTS?"

UPDATE: "I'm going to Jell-o the shit out of you." What does that mean? I don't know, but I said it. And apparently I was pretty certain of its undeniable truth when I did.

UPDATE:

About Last Night

Okay, I'm kind of cheating with this one since it's mostly (read: entirely) cut-and-pasted from what I wrote on a forum elsewhere.  It is long and I've deemed it blog-worthy so... Whatever, I do what I want.

New neighbour-friends and I went out dancing last night. It's been way too long (since...early September, I think) and if you didn't know, dancing and I, we have a thing. It's awesome and we are in love. Sometimes dancing does extra-special things that lets me know our passion is true, like play Whigfield's Saturday Night.

Oh, and the lobby had a couch swing. Unfortunately it only had about a metre of leeway so no matter how hard I pumped my legs it wasn't going much of anywhere. (I really tried!)

Now if only the weather was club clothes appropriate (no, not the other way around).

3AM shawarma, oh I've missed you so!

Also,
Dear Men-I-Have-Never-Met,

You need to stop. In fairness, some of you are sweet, but the others... You know which ones you are and you need to stop. Trying to tug my hand up as I go down the stairs is not going to make me follow you to the washroom for god knows what. (God knows!) Smacking my rear as I walk by is not going to suddenly fill me with desire for you. Here's a little secret too: stomping on your foot with my stiletto may have looked like an accident...it wasn't. You just seemed incapable of understanding every other signal that was to deter you from grinding your business on me. Including saying "stop" and us leaving the area - to hide from you, you creepy stalker. Men, I can only assume between this and the drunken compliments, ignoring my friends, awkward shoulder hugs and attempts to kiss me you thought you were some sort of Night At the Roxbury charming. Not a real thing, sorry.
Please...suck less. You do your gender no favours.

Sincerely,
Cole

I am still a litlle flabbergasted at the excessive hitting-on that took place. Much beyond the usual. Seriously, I went out with a glamazon and her sister and I got 99% of the attention (1% margin of error). Glamazon. The amount was more than enough for, say ten people or three sluts. Also, since they're the ones that would actually like that; I ended up feeling a little bad. Which is ridiculous.