FROM: Sarah’s mind
TO: Sarah’s immune system
DATE: October 14, 2005
We need to talk about your poor job performance.
You’re supposed to defend my body against invaders. Your strategy is simple -- recognize the enemy, mobilize forces and attack.
Did you skip the training seminar or lie on your resume? Once again, you’ve let a virus slip past security and explode a germ bomb inside my body. Thanks to you, I’m sitting here with a throat that feels like it’s lined with sandpaper and eyeballs that hurt to move.
I know you’re not a total slacker. There have been times you have leapt into action so quickly and with such force that you’ve almost killed me. If an errant piece of shrimp or a sunflower seed finds its way inside my body, you freak out.
But if a virus finds its way inside my body, you welcome it with open arms. This has got to stop. I’m sick of being sick. And I’m sick of worrying that I’ll have to chase my next meal with a bottle of Benadryl and an EpiPen.
Why do you hate me so much when I treat you so well? I get lots of sleep, I exercise, I eat well, I don’t smoke, I’m practically an obsessive-compulsive hand-washer.
You’re like the mean thug that smashed Nancy Kerrigan’s kneecap. Maybe you don’t like my music or the way I practice my dancing in the living room. Maybe you’re bitter and unhappy and it makes you feel good when I’m sick. Or maybe you’re addicted to daytime television and you know the only way you’ll get to watch it is when I’m feverish and delusional.
I don’t really know what your problem is and I don’t really care. I’d just appreciate it if you chilled out while I’m eating and unleashed Chang the next time a virus enters my body.
Consider this your last warning.