I have what some call “bronchitis” — I call it “birth control”
I was supposed to have a date tonight. Instead, I will be at Intern Nathalie’s house doing laundry.
Why, you ask? Because I sound like Bea Arthur after smoking a pack of cigarettes.
Also, because of said illness, my eyes are bloodshot. My nose is plugged up. I can’t hear. And my face/neck is swollen [don't worry - it's not meningitis - I checked].
Who wants to make out with this?
Answer: Nobody I want to make out with.
Also, thanks to the new smoking ban in PDX, I haven’t been able to secretly smoke in dingy bars and on side streets where nobody I know will see me.
Instead, I have been huddling outside my apartment, and behind my office building, smoking American Spirits and crying because the cold air + bronchitis make a deadly combination in my chest cavity.
Obviously, I have been smoking less. Which saves money. But then I spend that money on booze. So, it’s more like redistribution of funds.
So, I suppose it’s good that I am deathly ill. It gives my mouth a break, and I don’t have to put my make-up and push-up bra on every day in the hopes of attracting my future ex-husband.
But don’t you worry, kids — once this sickness gets kicked – I’m back on the prowl. And by prowl – I mean, I’ll be bangin’ and smokin’ again. Duh.
Haha … I kid, I kid.
No smokin’.
