By: Joshua Alexander
I am dying.
I mean it: about 8 different colds seem to have joined forces and ceaselessly attacked me, gleefully laying waste to my health since end of November. Please do not worry though: I have taken my at-home Covid-19 nasal swabs and have maintained the single-line-negative status each time, assuring me that I am not in fact pregnant. Whew. But there have been mornings in December where I literally felt like Walking Dead meets the ghost of Sam Elliott. During those lovely times I have been able to savor the experience of:
- The Dry Cough Of Death…where my brain has literally just exploded inside my skull, pounding for the next half-hour like a soothing Dubstep mix.
- lounging around the house because every one of my joints is pleading for Dorothy to apply some oil.
- watching several auditions pass me by because my body keeps playing the same tape on a loop: YOU MUST SIT NOW. YOU ARE OLD AND FRAIL. YOU MUST SIT NOW. YOU ARE OLD AND FRAIL.
- When I HAVE gotten out and gone to the store, testing out my cough and watching people scramble as I yell reassuringly after them, “Oh don’t worry, it’s not Covid!” Although I genuinely like to try out this scene.
- Laying through Snapped marathons, which is a show about how women kill their husbands. My wife watches it with me and takes notes.
Alright, enough. I am not REALLY dying, but I am told that I need to feature at least one clickbait blog title per year. I am also told there is no time like the present, so I have decided to decidedly get it out there and be decidedly done with it. I am also told that it is not proper etiquette to tell people you are dying when you are not in fact dying, and that lawsuits are on the way. And, finally, I was actually told offthe last time I wrote a blog article with such a headline – and that exchange was so enjoyable that I decided to do it again. What the heck – everyone is bound to be offended by something these days, so why not stir the pot a little?
Are we not all dying? Like, all the time, I mean? Betty White would say so. RIP, and stay Golden, Girl.
A nasty cold makes me feel like the Walking Dead, sure. But the truth is that I can drive out my driveway, forget to look left, and get broadsided by a logging truck. Or a tree can fall on my new studio because we get wind speeds here that are only ever mentioned in The Book of Revelation and other Armageddon-based fare. Or while I am petting my wife’s cat, he can decide to be a cat, and without warning suddenly remove my face with his claws. Actually that last one would never happen because he is a cat and therefore I would not be petting him. Curse you and your cat blogs and your cat shirts, Jon Gardner. Curse you.
The bottom line is that we are only a heartbeat away from dying anyway. Or from owning cats, which is like having a deathwish, as they genuinely would like nothing more in life than to watch you die.