- Share This Post
- Pin It
- 7
-
Sparkle (0)
I'm pretty inured to the whole "you don't look sick" line. It all becomes white noise after a while, though I will admit to often thinking, "well you don't look like a knob either", but I generally have enough tact to keep that to myself. Well sometimes. According to my loving family I occasionally have a bowl of bitchy for breakfast, and my Mother Teresa persona is replaced by a large dose of bitch with a side of cow. Usually this has something to do with a lack of coffee, and really if you speak to me pre-caffeine that's your own fault.
In many respects I'm over what other people think. I have enough on my plate without taking on other people's issues. But recently my happy-hippy, zenness slipped. A few weeks ago I was informed by a relative who shall remain nameless (but we both know who you are and you should know better than to piss off a person with a blog) that, "You can't expect sympathy with that face".
For some reason the bluntness of this statement hit me like a full on sucker punch to the gut. I was lost for words and just stood their like a fool with my mouth hanging open. What was I supposed to say to that? Would I have been within my rights to pick up the coffee pot and send it flying across the room at their head? Was it okay that I had a whole montage of Looney Tunes inspired cartoons going through my head? Think lots of anvils and frying pans.
The whole idea that I was asking for sympathy was like nails on a chalk board. I'm pretty sure the effort involved in holding my tongue, and coffee pot, did leave me with a weird twitch and a vein pulsating out the front of my forehead. But other than that I was cool as a cucumber.
Anyone who has ever read my blog or spoken to me for more than 3.2 seconds knows how I feel about the whole pity issue. I HATE pity, it sucks out your soul like a big hairy arsed incubus (or succubus for those of you of the male persuasion). It is dis-empowering and makes you a victim. If you are going to give me pity then you might as well just give me a chilli enema or poke me in the eye with that bastard offspring of a fork and spoon, the spork, and why don't you make it rusty while you're at it. To you and your pity I say a big fat Bite Me!
Now this isn't to say that I don't hold my own private pity parties every now and then. But its a very exclusive invite list of one, and may involve chocolate, hiding under my blankies and watching bad scifi or horror shows (yes I know the geek alert just went off, but until you've watched a shockingly bad scifi or horror show you don't know what you've been missing. If you haven't seen The Blob circa 1988 you haven't lived. The horror of Kevin Dillon's (Entourage) hair alone, is worth the effort of tracking it down). My pity parties are all infected with the Cinderella effect, so they are short lived. After a couple of hours, I wipe the snot off my face, pick up the mounds of soggy tissues and chocolate wrappers, suck it up and move on.
So in case I haven't been clear:
PITIERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT
OR AT LEAST KNEECAPPED AND
FORCED TO WATCH KENDRA ON LOOP.
So once againI am forced to revisit the question of "what does sick look like"?
If I am sick should I look like this?

(The Exorcist is one of my all time favourite movies. So happy when Linda Blair was on my favourite horror eye-candy show Supernatur















