Oh, Bonnaroo.
I love you, but you're letting me down.
I thought we had something good going. I fed you with my money and spirit; I danced in your muddy streets. All I asked in return was some good music, expensive beer, and some damn good fried food.
And you provided, oh so willingly. You gave me Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver and the best curly cheese fries I ever had.
But now, eight days after my return, I have a bone to pick with 'roo.
You and your delicious microbrews and your loud campers and your late night shows have landed me in the hospital! I look back at pictures of my adventure and want to scream at my former, healthy self. "Sleep another hour! Put down the acid and crack! (kidding!) Step away from the Natty Light!"
But perhaps I shouldn't really blame Bonnaroo for my current situation. I mean, everyone else is healthy.
I could blame this disease. Or maybe the other.
Whatever the cause may be, I'm stuck here for at least another night. I've been here since Thursday after my throat started to feel like I was getting strangled by Benjamin Linus. I put off coming in because strangulation? No big deal. But when I lost the ability to speak, I knew it was an emergent situation indeed.
My two days of kicking it like Keller were the worst days of my life. You might as well have taken away my ability to breathe! I saw so many opportunities for my wit to be vocalized, but they just drifted away, like bubbles on the verge of bursting. I even heard my coworkers discussing the latest celebrity news. They had so many important details wrong (Brangelina's children's names! Whether TomKat was married!) and it was painful to hear them, unable to jump in and contribute about Sarah Jessica Parker's surrogate twins or John Travolta's hidden homosexuality.
Celebrity gossip aside, it was also quite difficult to do actual work at the office. When coworkers addressed me, I grunted and would try to speak, but usually ended up spitting on myself and mumbling. I sounded like the Sloth from Goonies.
I knew that I looked like a freak but I insisted on hiding my illness. I had just returned from vacation and oh yeah, had recently missed a bunch of days for my fallen appendix. I didn't think it would look good that I was sick again.
Eventually I couldn't take my own silence anymore, so I popped into the ER, hoping for a quick tune up. That was five days ago and evidently, I'm still here. It's gotten past toleration at this point. This is mostly due to my roommate, who makes very questionable noises. All. Night. Long. She kind of sounds like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally". I think you all know what scene I'm talking about.
Awkward.
Fortunately my unlimited supply of morphine puts me to sleep so I can tune her out. I don't want to sound like a junkie but that drug = happiness.
And since I've been locked up in The Hospital That Is Not Bellevue, I've had a fair amount of visitors come to help lessen the pain. Meghan came tonight bearing some great gifts--ginger ale, powdered donuts, Chace Crawford. Sure, he was on the cover of People, but pictures of Chace are probably more interesting than the actual Chace. Derek brought me the same magazine, which I find reassuring for two reasons: 1--that he knows me so well and 2--that he supports my love of Gossip Girl. His sister also dropped by with OK! magazine. I guess my love of celebrity gossip really is known by everyone. (If only I was known for my love of James Joyce).
My family has also been here multiple times, giving me an excuse to unleash the crankiness that I typically hide from nurses, doctors and friends. They're family, so they can't really get mad when I scream at them to buy me a very specific brand of popcorn and then get angry when they take an hour to find it.
Genevieve also stopped by to fill my "weird gift" quotient. This time around, she brought me a stuffed flower that said "It's a boy!" and these really weird glasses that can be used as a straw.
Anyway, I'm hoping to be sprung tomorrow. I'm getting so bored and delusional that I actually emailed my boss for work to do from my bed. I was also so anxious for activity that I bit the cultural bullet that is Stephenie Meyer and rented Twilight. (Advice to you all: do not mention to me that you like the movie Twilight. I will fearlessly mock you until you are a shell of the person you once were.)
So if you have anything for me to do/look at/ read, send it my way.
Until then, I'll be here.
Lovingly yours,
Kelly 'The Fungus Is Among Us' Bergin
