Last night I felt that raw, dry sensation in my throat that usually precedes a cold and immediately panicked. I'm not ordinarily a hypochondriac, but the timing of this impending illness was especially troubling since I'm just days away from my first trip to Ireland. The idea of being sick dampening my fun even in the slightest really freaked me out. Then, just moments later, another thought occurred to me that fully restored my calm and allowed me to settle back into blissful sleep. I'd like to share that thought with you as an open letter to the rhinoviruses that are vehemently insisting I have to honor their squatters' rights:
Dear germs of whatever varietal you might be, please listen carefully. Contrary to what your ancestors have probably experienced at the hands of mine, I happily welcome your visit. I honestly hope you enjoy your current homestead and encourage you to live it up for the remainder of the weekend at my expense. You won't find me raining on your parade with antihistamines or the like. However, after the weekend draws to a close I strongly suggest you mount an expeditious retreat. Should you opt not to, let me clue you in on what will be in store for you.
Upon setting foot in Ireland I am going to flood my system with so much goddamn beer and whisky that your glycoprotein sheaths will melt right off your virus-face. No joke. Do you really think a man who has historically demonstrated so little regard for his own liver will even consider granting you disgusting interlopers a moment of quarter? My toxic (and increasingly flammable) blood will run as black as a Guinness as I maniacally laugh at our mutual demise.
So, by all means, Germs, stick around. I fucking dare you.
Should Ian emerge victorious in his quest to napalm himself back to health, he'll return in a week with new tales of beer-related heroism.