Is it wrong to punch a sick man in the face?
My whole body hurts and when I think about his wrinkled shirt and incessant coughing, I want to punch him right in his runny red nose.
Mr. You-Look-Like-Shit, why did you have to get on my plane? Why couldn’t you have slept through your alarm or. . . oh, I don’t know, anything other than boarding my flight home?
I’d spent a lovely few days in New York. I was ready to get back to my routine and hit my spin class to burn off all of the bagels and pizza. I was minding my own business, hydrated and reading a good book. Everything was great until Typhoid Tommy brought his clearly sick ass past my row and set up shop two rows back. Sneezing and coughing, knowing full well his little germs were flying everywhere.
If I were generous, I’m not sure what I expected him to do. I’ve travelled in less than optimum health, but it’s not fair that he got on knowing we were all going to be Ziplocked up in a flying capsule with him for five hours. He could have stayed home, thought about the rest of us. Sure, he might have been traveling for a family emergency, or needed to make that flight so he didn’t lose his job.
I guess, but I can’t breathe and I’m stuck in bed, so I don’t care.
Michael and Maggie were with me, they didn’t get sick. Maybe it’s because I had to use the bathroom. They didn’t use the bathroom once. Ugh, airplane bathrooms are second only to port-a-potties.
That was probably it. I fell asleep for a little while and I’ll just bet I’m-Sick-And-I-Want-To-Share, slithered his way up the aisle and contaminated that bathroom.
I touched something or flushed and now I feel like a truck ran over me. My head is stuffed like a sleeping bag. It was the bathroom. I’ll bet he didn’t even wash his hands and that’s why my hair hurts and my eyes are scratchy.
I sneezed so hard last night, I almost peed my pants and I know he’s to blame.
Or, I just got sick and no one is to blame . People get sick all the time. It’s often random. Maybe he wasn’t sick at all, just had allergies.
No. He was sick and this is all his fault, the bastard.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Sick Bed.