South Park Self



I am teaching a second-year television genre seminar in the BBC Sherlock this semester, which has been inordinate fun, if somewhat demanding in terms of reading frantically up on television genre theory, hunting down screencaps and maniacally assembling Powerpoints. Today was "The Hounds of Baskerville", which has the distinction of being quite my favourite episode in the series, and gave me untold opportunity to burble enthusiastically about Gothic and detection and generic tension and self-conscious narrative and what have you. It would, however, have gone somewhat better without the gravel voice and hacking cough, because, yup, by way of encore to being sick three times in the last two months, I am ill again.

Words cannot express how bored I am with this. Shoot-holes-in-the-wall bored. Drama queen flounce-onto-sofa-and-sprawl-dramatically bored. Sherlock offers really the perfect idiom. I darkly suspect that this is actually the same bug, which has simply treated me, over the last six weeks, to a sort of postmodern deconstructed tour of itself, like those really pretentious exploded desserts they sometimes give you in high-end restaurants. You know, deconstructed apple crumble with a small tower of candied apple artistically juxtaposed with a swathe of clove oatmeal dirt and a spray of cranberry foam, while a small scoop of blue cheese ice-cream lurks in a corner, garnished with eucalyptus. Except here it's the solid cement-filled skull and continual sniffling, dribbled (and I mean dribbled) with sinus, with the weird virusy spacey stuff foaming off to the side, and finished with a solid dollop of bronchitis off in the corner. Moments of apparent actual health stretch between them like expanses of white plate, but really you know the whole thing is a unity. A horrible, exhausting, ennui-inducing unity.

Bored. Very bored. So over this. (As is the cat: the coughing seems to be freaking him out, he is refraining from sleeping on my bed in a marked manner, probably because he thinks I'm barking at him). In default of a lyric soprano and a garret, which the consumptive coughing really seems to demand, bring me a new body, stat.
Next time you see Dr A. take her a print out of this blog post. It'll make her day. (Sorry you're feeling grotty, but you do describe it so very eloquently :) )
'Tis the old problem, I fear: contemplating, as ever, new ways to be entertaining about mucus. At least it's entertaining. Someone has to get some good out of this damned thing, aside from my collateral joy at being able to seize the opportunity for gratuitous Sherlock stills :>.

Looking forward to Sunday's little jaunt, btw. I approve of you having birthdays and sparking off this sort of thing.
Erm, I realize this is a bit odd but...

have you considered that you might have a food or additive allergy? This is pretty similar to the symptoms my friend had--especially the over-and-over-and-over again "headcold" part--before she found out she had a severe corn/maize allergy. She never had skin rashes (like I get) or stomach problems--just the repeated "cold".
Interesting point - I do have some reactions to highly processed wheat, I avoid white bread because it tends to give me eczema and IBS, and it's possible that it's implicated in the continual runny nose. I shall experiment ;>. But right now this is fairly clearly a full-on bronchitis thing, it's responding already to antibiotics so I suspect it's an actual infection. Thank you for the tip!