Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Shoot the doctor
This is a monologue of whine. Should that be in capitals? The Monologue of Whine (I wonder if that sounds better). I'm sick, and sitting at home alone. Rather, darling bro's home. Came over last night, after venturing out in the cold to get dinner proved too much for me. So I grabbed a jacket and an overnight bag and hustled in a cab all the way to Prabhadevi. Fought with the cabbie as well, would have cut his balls off if given half a chance, but settled to throw ten-rupee notes disdainfully at his face after informing him that he had robbed me blind! Then I croaked out "brother!" in the best old-Hindi-film-ishtyle I could manage when I reached his door, and was promptly taken in.
Waaaa!!!! I miss home and I miss mum!
Either that was a significantly selfish thing to say or a completely pansy thing to say - sigh, probably both!
So I have fever, a cold and my tummy feels like it's going to burst. I'm a walking, talking hypochondriac whose worst fears have come true - he's actually got all the maladies that ever lurked in Pandora's box and he simply can't come up with a diagnosis! If I beat my heart one more time, they'll cast me in Broadway as Hecuba! (read up on Troy) That will add insult to injury. Damn.
Mirror Mirror #9: Obsessing over and having nightmares about illnesses comes naturally to my family. My father gave an amazing performance when he got malaria. My mum sees every little bump in the head as a precursor to cancer and every little sniffle as a harbinger of TB. My bro seems to be the only one who escaped the family epidemic!
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