I’ve been sick these past few weeks. I’m pretty sure it’s the Chinese Bird Flu. I know because I’ve been consistently craving poultry. Turkey, chicken, Cornish game hens. It’s driving me around the bend.
I finally went to the doctor and got antibiotics. Something called a z-pack and a spray gel to put up my nose. I don’t care much for the spray. It strikes me as unnatural to put things up my nose. I am too conditioned to expel matter from that part of my body.
Along those lines, it is really starting to get on my nerves that I am the only one of four people in this apartment (two of whom are adults) who knows how to flush. It’s bad enough that I have two children who don’t do it. There is also an adult woman living here who has not yet adopted this tidy habit. It’s maddening. It’s not as if I am some kind of uptight clean freak, either; it’s just something of a traumatic surprise to be confronted by someone else’s forgotten personal effects, if you know what I mean.
What’s even weirder is that I live next door to people who like to cook. They are an Indian couple, and their kitchen abuts my bathroom. I often smell Indian food through the vent in my bathroom. It’s such an unnatural feeling – so contrary to every instinct I’ve ever had in my entire life – to walk into the bathroom and wonder what smells so freaking yummy. And then, voila! Room mate surprise!
Sometimes I hate my life. And sometimes I can laugh at it. I am not sure which it is today.
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