Being ill and dirty and writing

She is such a bitch. What a fair skinned and bitter tasting cunt she is. Though she gets you relieved, things would have been great if she was sweet and nice. She is paracetamol and she will stay bitter. Always.

Thermodynamics when applied to body is more understandable than what those formally dressed demons teach in closed walled environments. An hour ago, my body temperature was 100.9° C. For fear of dying a premature death and unsuccessful life, I took a paracetamol tablet. One whole tablet. I swallowed it with water. Now, the chemicals released from that medicine have started working and my body temperature is falling. Soon it will reach 98.6° C. The temperature difference is 100.9 – 98.6 = 2.3° C. High temperature corresponds to more heat since heat is directly proportional to temperature and vice versa. When temperature is falling, heat is getting released because high heat cannot be sustained at lower temperature. And I sweat. And I wipe my forehead with the back of left hand which later gets wiped on my shorts.

In this scorching heat that boils the skin along with hair, I was down with fever. How ironical. Hot outside the body, hot inside the body. When people buy energy drinks and ice creams I sweat and suffer from fever. And I write things like this that one day shall be forgotten. Everything has a shelf life. If not shelf life, there exists a life in human memories. After that minimum period of stay in gray matter, everything from Napoleon’s conquests to Mona Lisa’s smile gets wiped off. We are born with an amazing power to replace things in the space allocated to the chunks of memory that we have.

Today, it was a very painful day for me to muster enough muscular force to take bath. So I didn’t. There was no body washing today. My whole body was paining. At the slightest touch of a hard object, I felt the desire to receive pleasurable body massage from soft beautiful hands. Then I realised that this massage thing can only happen in dreams. So I slept. Sore back. Tight hip flexors. Bad throat. Mucusy cough. Sleep is the cure to illness. And to pain. And to every problem in life, sleep is the cure indeed. But I didn’t get that massage in my dream.

Sitting here, when I raise my arms to wipe my sweaty eyebrows, my stinky underarms make me feel repulsive of myself. That is the smell I cannot tolerate on anybody else. Though I can be that smelly to myself at times. Accept your odour, I say and write ahead.

Your highness is lying limp and is sticking to the underwear. Not having felt the wetness of water from two days, my little one has found solace in my groins. The underwear stinks of residual drops of urine that failed to drip while I peed. The pink headed soldier stares back at my face with his smegma smeared neck. I make sure to wash my hands after he is done with releasing yellowish water from his mouth. People be hygienic without being clean. Whatever that means.

Nevertheless, I didn’t clean my little one and planned to bathe tomorrow. Whoever said tomorrow never comes, that person didn’t knew what is dawn and when it occurs. The paracetamol has worked pretty well. I have no desire to feel grateful towards doctors but I do feel they need to be given credit. The ones who help in the exit of foetus from a woman’s womb, those doctors and nurses deserve more respect than those human beings who vaccinate cats for a living. And with that great sense of respect for them, this grown up zygote, embryo, foetus, infant, toddler, preteen, teen, adolescent wants to sleep. See ya!


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