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Apparently it’s common for women to complain about men being sick. Apparently, all that women do in their spare time is talk about how men are such babies. Babies!
My girlfriend and I were getting a ride home from my friend, let’s call her Raimee, when all of a sudden, as though unleashing a decade’s worth of repressed fury, Raimee explains to my girlfriend how men are such babies when they’re sick. My girlfriend reciprocated with the fervor of a priest belying the evils of satan to his parishioners. I was dumbstruck.
Waking with a fever of 105 and a migraine, I told my girlfriend that morning I had only a minor case of the sniffles, nothing to worry about, shall be fine with half an aspirin. She scoffed, turned and rolled herself in the blanket. I tugged at the blanket, but the fever’d sapped my strength. I tried to fall asleep but my shivering woke her.
“Oh, does the baby need his bwanket?”
“Please? It’s cold.”
“Here, you go. Da baby needs his bwanket!”
I was still deathly ill when I went out that night, but I doubt the women saw through my poker face. They carried on with their girl talk:
“When I get sick, nobody helps me out with anything! I do the laundry, the dishes without asking for a thing!”
“Haha, yeah! And when men get sick, all they do is complain! ‘Wah, my head hurts. Wah, my throat is sore!’ Nothing but complaining.”
“This morning my boyfriend—oh, is it too cold fo’ da baby? Does da baby need his window up cuz da baby is sick?”
“It’s a bit chilly, yes.” It was just above freezing, I’d given my jacket and sweater to my girlfriend and Raimee, and for some reason only my window was down. “I’m just glad we’re almost home! I’m really thirsty and could go for some chamomile and something sweet.”
“Wook, Waimee, da baby needs noo-twee-ents fo’ his body!”
“Aw, po’ baby needs his glucose monito’! Is his bwood-sugaw levoh too low?”
“Aw, da baby has hypoglycemia!”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m feeling faint and very nauseous. Any sweet will help me feel better actually.” At that point they started playing cat and mouse, tossing a Snickers bar over my head. After a minute or so they unwrapped it and ate it.
I’m not sure where all this hatred came from. Maybe all women are innately misandrists, and men being ill somehow disables what I like to call the Misandry Filter. Maybe I just don’t understand women. Maybe that’s why I’m still a virgin.
My girlfriend and I were getting a ride home from my friend, let’s call her Raimee, when all of a sudden, as though unleashing a decade’s worth of repressed fury, Raimee explains to my girlfriend how men are such babies when they’re sick. My girlfriend reciprocated with the fervor of a priest belying the evils of satan to his parishioners. I was dumbstruck.
Waking with a fever of 105 and a migraine, I told my girlfriend that morning I had only a minor case of the sniffles, nothing to worry about, shall be fine with half an aspirin. She scoffed, turned and rolled herself in the blanket. I tugged at the blanket, but the fever’d sapped my strength. I tried to fall asleep but my shivering woke her.
“Oh, does the baby need his bwanket?”
“Please? It’s cold.”
“Here, you go. Da baby needs his bwanket!”
I was still deathly ill when I went out that night, but I doubt the women saw through my poker face. They carried on with their girl talk:
“When I get sick, nobody helps me out with anything! I do the laundry, the dishes without asking for a thing!”
“Haha, yeah! And when men get sick, all they do is complain! ‘Wah, my head hurts. Wah, my throat is sore!’ Nothing but complaining.”
“This morning my boyfriend—oh, is it too cold fo’ da baby? Does da baby need his window up cuz da baby is sick?”
“It’s a bit chilly, yes.” It was just above freezing, I’d given my jacket and sweater to my girlfriend and Raimee, and for some reason only my window was down. “I’m just glad we’re almost home! I’m really thirsty and could go for some chamomile and something sweet.”
“Wook, Waimee, da baby needs noo-twee-ents fo’ his body!”
“Aw, po’ baby needs his glucose monito’! Is his bwood-sugaw levoh too low?”
“Aw, da baby has hypoglycemia!”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m feeling faint and very nauseous. Any sweet will help me feel better actually.” At that point they started playing cat and mouse, tossing a Snickers bar over my head. After a minute or so they unwrapped it and ate it.
I’m not sure where all this hatred came from. Maybe all women are innately misandrists, and men being ill somehow disables what I like to call the Misandry Filter. Maybe I just don’t understand women. Maybe that’s why I’m still a virgin.
You know, I don't think you've ever written the truth told the way it truly is until now.
ReplyDeleteIt seems that it brings out the best in all of us.
I once got the one of only two A's from the most strict English teacher in two years from a paper I wrote on Anthem when I wrote it delirious with fever.
PS - Don't men just drink a bottle of Whisky and shoot a snot rocket and all is well again?
Don't forget not showering! Not showering is part of the remedy, too!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you finally got over that writer's block! You forgot to mention your complaining about THAT too! LOL!
ReplyDeletep.s. "R"aimee? "R"eally? "R"idiculous!
Aimee, you're not making any sense. I was talking about a past relationship when my friend Raimee was giving us a ride home. This happened five years ago before we even met! Back when I was diabetic and prone to migraines.
ReplyDeleteWomen think they have a corner on the pain market.
ReplyDeletePerhaps it's misplaced retaliation for all the times some guy rolled his eyes when she complained about having cramps or giving birth.
It's bunk.
Make her bring you breakfast in bed.
Breakfast in bed? We'll have to see as the doctors said I may not wake up the next time I fall asleep, but I'm not one to complain.
ReplyDelete