Give me Love and Money, I have the rest already

I don’t normally boast about my spending habits, or about my random impulse buys at malls. But this time round, I have to say it out loud. That I spent $130 buying drugs from my General Practitioner. 3 different kinds of pills for gastric flu. The good old paracetamol that I seriously suspect my body is getting immune to. And 2 different kinds of antibiotics. All together 6 packets of pills in one small white plastic bag.

Exactly one week later, here I am on New Year’s Eve, carrying the same virus in my body, sitting in front of the same computer, writing on the same pathetic blog.

I don’t know why but this virus strikes with such precision. On both weekends that are suppose to be a long holiday, I am trapped at home. Not that I feel left-out or anything. I’ve gone past that stage long ago. Not that I would be anywhere else other than at home if I wasn’t this sickly.

I don’t really understand how someone as young and as active as me can fall sick so easily. Even if I fall sick, I shouldn’t take such a bloody long time to heal. A young and hot-blooded male like me should have healing abilities like Wolverine. Just water-parade my bladder, and then sleep for 18 hours, I should wake up good as new.

But now I swallow countless pills. To the point where I smell the drugs in my urine when I pee in the toilet. The fever’s still reluctant to go. The body ache’s still killing me. I’m sick of eating porridge. I’m sick of popping pills.

I still remember what the nurse said when she handed me the bill. "Originally it’s $135, but the doctor will only charge you $130" She made me feel soooo much better. *wry smile*

Since Thursday afternoon, I’ve been having a temperature. And after dozens of paracetamol, one injection and seeing 3 different doctors later, I finally managed to bring it down to 36.7. But still, my body is weak. Because when I clench my fist, I can’t feel the blood rushing to my forearms. And when I shift between sleeping postures in bed, my body winces at the pain experienced in my back and shoulders.

Tonight is Sunday night, the eve of Christmas. I am blogging at home. Maybe I can make use of this chance to wish all my friends a Merry Xmas.

Except for the odd phone call from the office, nobody’s really called me these few days. My mother was the one who nursed me back to health. Still the one who’s most reliable, I want to say thank you to my mother. At the same time, I want to say sorry, because at certain points, I’d wished that it was somebody else taking care of me. But oh well, you can’t expect anybody to put their programmes on hold for you nowdays. The show must go on.

The need to feel helpless. Desperately he craved for that feeling. For the sprinter that he was not, he couldn’t dash up a long steep slope and allow the breathlessness to engulf his shame. For the Quincy that he was not, he couldn’t concentrate all his energy into a bow and fire off an explosion of an arrow into the sky. For the Einstein that he was not, he couldn’t design and build dissipating fins around his body that would exchange his strength with the atmosphere. Still he needed that feeling, to be as physically helpless as he was emotionally.

But you left her hanging in the air. How was she to know what to expect? Or what kind of intentions to harbour?

She sat at the bus-stop, legs put together and her skirt folded nicely across her lap. She was waiting for the Red Bus. Word has it that the Red Bus was no longer in service. The other commuters at the bus-stop all told her the same thing. That nobody should wait for a bus that’s not going to come. Wavered and uncertain, she looked on as the other buses came and people boarded hurriedly, rushing to their destinations. She found herself all alone at the bus-stop, a slight chilling breeze blew across her face. A warning that the rain was going to come soon.

A bus emerged. She stood up and adjusted her skirt. Though not red in colour, this bus will take her to the place she wants to go.

Back at the bus interchange, the Red Bus driver was bending over a table with a lighted fag in between his lips. He scrutinized the map on the table, obviously unsure of which route to take, unclear of where his destination should be.

Somebody once staunchly advocated to me, that the moment will pass. I didn’t really understand at that time. And this ignorance lead to disbelief.

The moment has passed. And what better way to learn, than to let it slip out of your grasp.