5 Weirdly Specific Things Everyone Tries To Do When Sick

A few weeks ago, evolution failed me, and I got sick. And when I say sick, I mean the useless kind of sick where if I lived in medieval times, I would've been thrown off the side of a cliff in order to stop the spread. It then would have been renamed "Devil's Cliff" and become the site of many tragic, witch-related verdicts.

It's not like I haven't been this sick before. I wasn't lying there in wide-eyed bafflement, wondering why demons were shitting in my lungs. But for the first time, I realized how many weirdly specific things you can't do while in this condition. For instance ...

#5. Masturbation Is An Exercise In Self-Torture

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I don't know if it's the same for women, but for guys, the brain gremlins who operate the horny button don't take a sick day. It's incredibly annoying, because when you feel like you're having a full-body toothache, the last thing you want to do is appease a boner. Still, there's a primitive, psychotic part of your mind that thinks, "Maybe if I have an orgasm, I'll feel better. Or at least get exhausted enough to pass out."

Trying to will yourself into eroticism is embarrassing. When you lie in bed for more than a few days, your body starts to break down. Planting yourself on your side, you watch as your arms get paler and skinnier and your stomach begins to pool out onto the bed ... after about a week you look like a melted candle. It's incredibly difficult to take a gander at that ugly, gelatinous form and think to yourself, "You know what this needs? Jerking off." I'm not saying that I get turned on only by the sight of my own body (though that's sometimes true -- I'm a pretty, pretty man), but feeling sexy is just as big a part of masturbation as imagining other sexy people.

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All the thoughts of Beyonce in the world don't matter when you feel like Jay Z looks.

There is no clear answer as to why anyone would decide that it's a good idea to play whack-a-mole when you already feel like a used condom, but I managed to do it each and every time. And each time I felt just as bad as I did before ... except a lot more tired and sweaty. And I couldn't tell which tissues were from my nose and which were from my dick. Note to self: I need to buy a garbage can for my bedroom.

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The one time not being able to smell or taste anything made my life better.

Jerking off when you're sick is like making a pizza when all you have is uncooked crust. None of the ingredients are there to make it worth creating, and trying it is a waste of soft dough, so you're better off just waiting for a time when you're more well-stocked, or you could just order pizza from the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist. The analogy kind of breaks down there, but you know what I mean.

#4. All You Can Do Is Watch TV ... And You Can't Enjoy Any Of It

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When you're so sick that you're rendered immobile, all you want to do is stretch out on the couch, put on a movie or TV show, and be a lump. If you're lucky, you'll fall asleep. If you're not, you at least want to be entertained enough to be distracted from your pain. Unfortunately, that very pain turns all forms of entertainment into annoying piles of suck.

Getting sick and scrolling through Netflix will make you question why moving pictures were even invented. All of the movies that you watch, especially comedies, are going to be your mind's version of dry-humping a cheese grater. Netflix needs a category where it asks you how many/what kinds of antibiotics you're on, and then just puts on a comforting movie that you've seen before. In my case, I would've chosen "Z-Pak" and been treated to eight hours of Michael Keaton whimsy, because if any movie is going to be the cinematic equivalent of chicken noodle soup, it's fucking Mr. Mom.

20th Century Fox
It's heartening to know that, sometimes, even Batman has no idea what he's doing.

Trying to find new things should be illegal, though. I'd already gone through every Netflix documentary with the plot of "People say that they've seen a giant snake, but HAVE THEY?" So I figured that I'd try out a few lauded independent comedy/dramas where characters solve their problems through stares and beautiful shots of fields at dawn. While the moral of every one of these movies is "Happiness, as you know it, is wrong," the moral of my attempt to spend my sick day watching Sad Getting Sadder (And A Famous Comedian Acting Sad Too) was "Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck off."

Touchstone Pictures
My biopic, except coming that close to food would only mean
a coffee cup full of gnarly chunks.

Every bit of nuance that these movies had was lost on me. My eyes hurt, and my stuffy head took all of it as an affront. Translating any sort of subtlety so that my couch/body/NyQuil hybrid could properly receive it was a chore that I was not up for. So I fumed at the TV until Netflix inquired, "Are you still there?" which, coincidentally, is the theme of a lot of these movies. And I didn't respond. I'd give movies another shot when I got better. For the time being, I was just going to have to entertain myself with a method that people used before TVs were invented: I was going to be miserable and hate myself until I could go outside again.

#3. Blankets Become As Complex As Astrophysics

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Blankets are the simplest thing in the world to operate, but when you're sick, they suddenly turn into Rubik's Cubes. Somewhere in your house, there is one that's the perfect size and thickness to get you through feeling like you're alternating between the arctic poles and the core of the Sun. But you feel so shitty that there's no way you can devote the time to finding it. So you grab whatever's closest and just deal with it.

That specific blanket is always a piece of shit.

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Like wrapping yourself in one-ply toilet paper.

Trying to find the proper weight and distribution ratio is like trying to figure out the properties of dark matter. You get multiple blankets and pile them on, but the math doesn't work out. I'm not ridiculously tall, but it is hard to find couch blankets that are somewhere between the size of Kleenex and carpet. If I covered myself from the neck down, I'd need another blanket to cover myself from the feet up. But then, my middle would be too hot. And, if I bunched them up to cool down my middle, then it would be too heavy on my neck or feet and GAAAH WHY HAS THIS WORLD FORSAKEN ME?!

You get to the point where the only way to stay uniformly covered is to curl up in the fetal position, or turn the blanket diagonally so your feet don't hang out the bottom like the flu's version of an underboob gallery from the Chive. And even if you do find the perfect spot, it's not staying that way for long. God forbid that you fall asleep, because you're going to wake up with that shit wadded up around your chin like a Lenny Kravitz scarf.

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This, plus sex with literally every woman alive today,
keeps him warm and healthy all year round.

There are a few instances in every sickness where your body becomes a pin cushion, and every slight breeze threatens to render you a skinless, quivering mass. At the same time, every blanket turns you into that drippy, disgusting sponge on the back of the sink that should have been thrown away six months ago. Blankets are our most bittersweet triumph as a species. Now I am become Cozy, Destroyer Of Worlds.

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