Let Me Tell You About Myself

Let me tell you about myself.

I have a sore throat that’s three days old. By now, of course, it is obvious that this is no ordinary sore throat because sore throats do not persist this long. The weirder thing about my sore throat is that it’s just affecting the left side of my throat. Right side’s completely fine but the left side is creating havoc whenever I swallow my own saliva.

Cringed a little?

Yes, humans swallow their own saliva and blog about it sometimes, which is considerably disgusting but you can expect such a thing from us. We are a species that tends to get surprised by our own disgusting daily habits. I sometimes look down when I’m on the tiled throne and I stick my tongue out like I didn’t know the stuff came from the hard work of my own digestive system. Some girls are even scared stiff when shown a mirror reflection of their own labia minora and majora. I know shudders ran through my spine when I saw my shaved balls for the first time.

But back to my sore throat, it’s really weird that it’s just the left side that’s hurting. The hypochondriac in me conjures images of Roger Ebert in my head and I immediately think cancer. I see myself trapped in my house with my chin pasted to my neck because all the meat there is gone.

Don’t we all think like that? When it comes to petty pains and big pains alike, we just cut through all the bullshit and think cancer. “Colds? I got no colds. I’ve been healthy since forever so I must have lung cancer.” “Blood? I don’t get blood this early on my period. I must have ovarian cancer.” We can’t help just self-diagnosing ourselves with cancer because it’s a waste of time and energy to think of any lesser disease. That’s right, even when it comes to worrying about our health, we are efficient. Efficiency means living a life devoid of all bullshit. And if we like to hear or to have bullshit, we want it as soon as possible without any hassles. Bullshit without bullshit is modern efficiency.

I am sorry I haven’t told you about myself enough. It’s this sore throat and this unproductive Friday. To ease the sting in my throat, I drink lots of cold water. Sometimes, I let it stay in the vicinity of my throat until it forms a tiny pond there where I imagine millions of bacteria are having the time of their lives swimming and diving. Think about it. It’s already the rainy season here but in my mouth, it’s eternal summer with bacteria beach buddies.

My mouth is a self-sustaining ecosystem filled with millions of live microorganisms; though now it just tastes like stale saliva, like every day. Cold water soothes the ache a bit, but not enough. I tried cola yesterday because I thought the fizz might do some magical effect to the pain, but it didn’t. So now I’m thinking beer. Beer may have better medicinal properties than water and cola when it comes to left-side throat pain self-diagnosed as cancer.

Problem is, I don’t think my wallet can support my alcohol plans. Mogwai and Sarah’s and Gerry’s and Dencio’s — all these beer havens turn me into a dirt-poor guy overnight. If only wild drunken memories can be exchanged for money. A memory of a friend confessing he actually had a crush on that girl back in high school you thought looked like a Galapagos turtle for 50 bucks; a memory of a girl you like looking at you from across the table like she actually considered you may be worth dating for 173 bucks; a memory of you and your friends all singing to the tune of the latest cheesy novelty song for 80; a memory of the girl at the next table looking at you scandalously because you were mindlessly ogling her boobs for 500; a memory of your girlfriend kissing another guy while you’re too busy half-snoring for a cool grand.

We’d all be millionaires getting drunk. Does someone actually do that? I know someone gets paid to have sex with models, so someone must get paid millions to get drunk. If there were such a guy, there might still be hope for humanity.

But in the practical world of desk jobs and hard-earned blow jobs, the fun drunken memories just stay there in your head, and then they melt. And then they’re gone. And then, hey, what the fuck, it’s Monday again.

And you still have a sore throat. I mean I.

Is there a difference?

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