When you gots the Covid…

I use the term constantly now. “I gots the Covid.” It’s bad English and points to the author as problematic at best, but it’s what Grand Funk once called “a natural fact.” Not only true but there for all to see in prison-blue majesty. “Steer clear of him. He’s sick.”

Of course, these are the same people who have spent the past couple of years whining about how unfair and, dammit, untrue this whole Covid-19 story really is. Does it affect your liver? Your spleen? Your medulla oblongata? Your balls?

I don’t know and neither does anyone else if they’re talking at all. From what I’ve been able to discern the vast majority of “experts” have essentially postponed reaching any sort of determination on the world front. No, we haven’t gotten any big answers to bigger questions. No, we don’t really know that much more about the transmission of the disease than when all this madness started. No, we don’t know how to guarantee that we’ll get better. No, we’re not sure from one moment to the next which take-out has the best deal on burgers. [Ed. Note: It’s probably McDonald’s.]

What have we found out? Whole lotta nothing in my opinion. But here’s the thing: I have been governmentally tested and told that I am indeed positive for Covid-19. Yipee!

Full disclosure: I never doubted the existence, severity, or survivability of the virus. From my initial exposure to the topic, I have known that the whole thing was little more than a crapshoot. You can catch Covid, spread Covid, even call Covid a series of unpleasant names, one of which rhymes with the English term, “Ducking Runt.” But no one, at least thus far has told me anything about it that eases my mind, that puts my future on solid ground. They just all say things like, “We’ve got to get to Subway and pick up dinner.”

I suppose there are worse things they could say. [Ed. Note: I had a social studies teacher once who told me I was living my life all wrong, but he never told me how to correct it. Memo to self: find and kill this individual.] Certainly, there are better things. There are always better things. For example a simple, “I suddenly have forgotten all my English. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to Subway to pick up dinner.” I’d be down with that.

But even this has failed to be my reward, my Heavenly billboard, in sparkling letters, saying, “Scott, you’re dead? Come on in and play Parcheesi!” It’s just uncertain news about a disease we have not yet conquered. It’s just meaningless platitudes about something that should never have happened in the first place, but was, of course, inevitable.

I was not told the specific nature of my Covid, although it occurred during the height of the Omicron variety’s rise to international glory. People in Pakistan, Cambodia, Idaho, and Moosejaw are all experiencing the same thing. Misery. Pain. Discomfort. Unpopular party appearances… it’s a nightmare. A diamond shower of burning shit.

And I’m smack in the middle of it. I am a textbook example of whatever the hell it is that I have. Perhaps even beyond the textbook, as a) ain’t nobody writing textbooks about this shit and b) ain’t nobody telling the sick kid anything that could possibly be of any use.

But there are certain things I’ve been able to determine on my own. Let’s take a look, shall we?

  • In spite of all the news I’ve received, mainly via TV, I still don’t know which of the popular varieties of the virus that I have.
  • I’ve lost all sense of smell and taste, although the interweb says this is very uncommon at this stage of the disease’s development.
  • I’m not getting sick every time I eat, as I was when the test first indicated I was possitive. Don’t get me wrong. I still feel like garbage more often than I don’t, but I’m keeping nutrition down.
  • All of my friends fall under one of three catagories: a)vaccinated b) unvaccinated, but very good as laughing at those who are and c) unvaccinated and very sorry of that fact now because they’ve infected the entire Eastern seaboard. And they caused that red-headed girl from Oregon to miss her favorite show on Nickelodeon. I myself consider me to be a subsector of a) in which I’m fully vaccinated and still alive, but feel like I’ve been swallowed by a gelatenous cube.

So, what does this all mean, you great poofter?

Glad you asked. The primary effect upon me is the inability to complete even the simplest of tasks, most especially when it comes to my career. (I’m a writer. Did I mention that?) I understand very clearly that at this stage of my public life I should be constantly working on some aspect of my writing, whether creatively (as in actually composing the shit), or promotionally. I should be selling the name E2 Books, the works of S.J. Varengo and of Craig A. Hart.

But what I’m actually doing is dragging my carcass through as much of this crazy, mixed-up world, marking the end of my day by recognizing the creation of a new one. I’m breathing to the best of my ability, and I’m waiting for my energy level to return to no less than 93% human. I’m waiting for my ability to write books to overcome my ability to watch the sunrise.

When can we expect you to clock back in?

How the hell do I know?

Okay. Here’s what I do know:

  • The day I first went to the hospital I already knew I was infected, but did not know I’d fall outside, hit my skull on the sidewalk, and break said skull in multiple places.
  • I knew that many people got over their brush with Covid, even though it has killed uncounted victims across the planet.
  • I knew I was vaccinated and therefore most likely I’d survive the whole drama. In fact…
  • I knew I would live.

But none of that really does one any good! It’s a list of shit we know, but don’t know. It’s a list of symptoms we’ve seen, but don’t, in reality, understand a damn thing about.

So what was my purpose for all of this blah blah blah?

Look, I want you to know that I care about you. I want you to know that creating worlds, creating characters, is as pleasing a thing to do as anything I’ve ever done, with the possible exception of all the things I probably ought to charge you for before I tell you. I don’t like being a little Covid puppy.

But I do want to take you to new places, introduce you to new people, and get you to pet a new dog, even if it’s a Covid puppy.

So don’t give up on me just yet. And don’t forget that Craig and I have worked well into our new series, which we’re hoping changes everything for you.

Now if you excuse me, I’d like to go be ill. LOVE YOU!

One thought on “When you gots the Covid…

  1. Pingback: Hey, Y’all! A’memba me? | S.J. Varengo – Author

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