Two years ago today I was in the midst of recovering from a surgery to remove my tonsils. Although surgery is never really fun, with the exception of a late-night visit to the emergency room, the weeks following it were, in all honesty, a complete and utter blast, mainly because, for the first time in my adult life, I got to spend an extended amount of time not holed up in an office building but instead lying on the living room sofa wearing mostly hooded sweatshirts and pajamas pants whilst devouring books and magazines and Netflix, my brain blissfully adrift in a fog of liquid Vicodin. I wrote about the experience in a web log post on January 17, 2013. A portion of that post can be found below.
On the first day of January my body succumbed to the strain of influenza that was working its way through the Colorado ski lodge my family occupied over the holidays and I spent the first five days of the New Year mainlining chicken broth and NyQuil from my couch wondering how it's possible to both shiver and sweat at the same time. After regaining a shred of health, I peeled my ever-expanding posterior off the sofa and parked it on a table in a California Pacific Medical Center operating room where a licensed physician used sharp objects to shanghai masses of lymphatic material from my mouth in a procedure commonly referred to as a tonsillectomy. Following the removal of said tonsils, which I'm told simply "grew in wrong," I was wheel-chaired to the parking lot and hoisted into Bevan's car which transported me to his couch where I was instructed to reside for the foreseeable future.
As of last Thursday I have been burrowed in the worn beige cushions of Bevan's living room sofa with a knit beanie on my head and hospital socks on my feet. 30 ounces of something green from Jamba Juice have been perpetually melting under one arm while a liter of Hydrocodone-Acetaminophen empties ever faster under the other. After two weeks of razor neglect, a mob of reddish-brown hair has successfully seized my chin and cheeks thus drawing my likeness ever closer to that of the Unabomber.
The coffee table beneath my feet contains a recent issue of The Advocate and copies of The Mayor of Castro Street: The Life and Times of Harvey Milk, The Help and The Dreyfus Affair: A Love Story, all of which I've consumed, in that order, over the course of seventeen days, as well as a pink Post-it note with the words "Hello, my name is Health" scrawled on it in black Sharpie. On the flat-panel Panasonic that hangs on the wall in front of me my Netflix "Recently Watched" list pulses white with the dozen movies I've viewed since the beginning of last week.
This week I have FaceTimed each and every member of my immediate family for at least twenty minutes every morning, taken an average of 2.4 naps every afternoon and scrutinized the arc of Rachel Maddow's bangs for one hour every evening. Additionally, I am now an expert on the romantic life of Notre Dame linebacker Manti Te'o, President Obama's gun control agenda and what my friends on Facebook think they might have for dinner tonight.
Oh, and despite the empty jug of prune juice on the table beside me, I have not had a bowel movement in seven days.
Did I miss anything?