I awoke this morning to the pleasant sounds of some small animal dying a claustrophobic death in our wall heater, and the uncharacteristic urge to do something healthy today. Perhaps the frantic clawing noises echoing through the hallway reminded me life is short; then again it was probably just my morbid disposition that did that. In any case, I popped out of bed with the motivation to adopt a wholesome lifestyle and whatever pet wanted so desperately to enter my apartment through such unorthodox means. So after gazing at my new treadmill for a good thirty seconds, I decided focusing on my diet would be the best place to start.
I began by shoving only TWO mini crumb donettes down my dental dam, followed up with just three point five shots of chewable black tar espresso. That’s a point five deduction from my quotidian habit, which may not sound like a lot to you, but as many an Olympic ice dancer knows, a point five deduction can feel like it’s going to kill you.
A prolonged fight ensued between my half and half pouring hand and my will to get fit, leaving me with a cramped arm and the kind of mess you’d expect to see if a cage fighter kicked the shit of a cow in your kitchen. Eventually, my desire to look little-boned won out and I choked down my mug of the good stuff without the aid of a high-calorie mixer. Foregoing my heavy pour of cream allowed me to create a beverage that was both fat free and a handy test that assured me my gag reflex was still fully functioning.
Feeling undercaffeinated and about thirteen donettes short of a full stomach, I could hardly get to work on my To Do list. So I did what I always do when I have a To Do list that needs doing and sought a distraction. Thankfully, the violent thrashing coming from our wall had yet to cease. I decided to call Raul to see if he had any advice on how I might put our new friend out of its misery.
For some inexplicable reason, all of Raul’s suggestions involved me entering into close proximity with the creature, rendering his proposals moot. Had he recommended dynamite, standing in front of the heater and staring at it for long periods of time, or spraying the fire extinguisher through the slats, I’d have happily obliged, but as it was, the call proved ineffectual. I wandered into the bathroom to floss as Raul’s frustration with my refusals to open the heating unit reached a crescendo. Just then, a thump against the stucco startled me so much my eyes whipped open. Then they whipped open again as I registered just how bloodshot they looked the first time they whipped open.
“Hold on a sec,” I said to Raul as I set my cell on the sink and craned closer to the mirror to inspect my crimson peepers. It looked like I’d stayed up all night alternately smoking pot and pepper spraying myself in the face, which, I’m pretty sure I hadn’t. “I’m gonna have to call you back.”
According to WebMD, possible explanations for why I appeared to have contracted the worst case of pink eye in human history included: dehydration, indoor allergens, bulimia nervosa, subconjunctival hemorrhage, giving birth, or Kawasaki Disease, an ailment that has far less to do with brand name personal watercrafts and motorcycles than I had expected.
I analyzed the list. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d drunk a glass of water that didn’t contain beer-like ingredients, so Option One seemed possible. Then again, if the headbanger in the heater was a cat, indoor allergen exposure could be the culprit. While my breakfast did make a few escape attempts, I couldn’t say I qualified as bulimic. As for the other three possibilities, it seemed I lacked some relevant side effects such as a torn retina, a baby, and an acute rheumatic fever.
It seemed I just needed to drink some alcohol-free water, but as with anything worth doing, I thought it worth overdoing. Within minutes, I found myself curled in the fetal position, clutching my water-logged organs, and recalling a story a friend of mine had told me. A radio station sponsored a contest that required participants to engage in a water-drinking contest. The winner died, not from the excitement of collecting her cash prize, but from drinking water. Back to the internet.
An EHow article looked like it might provide valuable information for fending off the angel of death. It offered four steps for avoiding water poisoning. Four steps! Even in my panicked state I could see the hilarity in this. Isn’t there just ONE step for avoiding water poisoning?
The article was pretty entertaining and made for a great distraction from my original distraction’s distraction. Its four step program can be summarized as follows and doubles not just as a great way to succeed at avoiding water poisoning one’s self to death, but as a great way to succeed at life: First, Don’t Panic; Second, Avoid Becoming Very Ill, Especially Whilst Engaging in a Triathlon or Other Strenuous Sporting Event (like trying to escape a wall heater?); Third, Never Have a Water Drinking Contest; and Fourth, Do Not Binge or Do Anything Stupid.
If only my buddy in the heater had followed these steps, maybe he would still be alive right now. The fact that it’s been quiet for over an hour now makes me think he’s passed on to that vast wall mounted heater-free space in the sky. As for me, I’ve decided not to refill my Brita, in an attempt to avoid ending up there, too.
Leave a Comment
No comments yet.
Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI
