Illing

When I am healthy, I have no tolerance for others sneezing, coughing, clearing their throat or complaining about their symptoms. I say “God bless you” for anything beyond the first sneeze with such disdain, others typically apologize afterward.

"Are you sick? Must be YOUR fault. Engage in some introspection to see where you went wrong in life, you…you…you human petri dish."

But when I’M sick, all bets are off. I mope, emit various fluids out of every facehole, and make sounds not heard since the Great Sink Backup of ‘78. And I look for sympathy. From my wife. From my kids. From my tortoise.

"How can you not feel sorry for me? Can’t you see that I have become infected with some nefarious supervirus? Look, I may not survive the night, so you might as well make some tea for me now."

Only the tortoise even LOOKS sympathetic. But you know tortoises; they are masters of deception. Appearing benevolent but secretly plotting the destruction of the human race. Oh, their plan is underway, alright, but like everything else tortoises do, it progresses at a painfully slow rate.

Sorry. Must be the Dimetapp™ talking.