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Po-TAY-to po-TAW-to, indeed.

Apparently what I’ve been suffering from is likely not COVID, rather a nasty viral bronchitis. Nurse practitioners from both the ‘rona assessment clinic and a respiratory clinic have stated this thing is making the rounds like a door-to-door vacuum salesperson—remember those kids?—and it’s lived up to being COVID’s evil twin. Far too many negative tests in combination with countless other patients seen with a similar story, had them both in agreement.

Don’t get me wrong, I won’t complain about not winning the covid lottery after all. But the results of this stand-in replacement ticket have been equally shitty, hacky, phlegmy, and the viral analogue of a woodpecker architecting a home in my fucking skull. At the same time, I’ve been blessed with the knowledge that there are in fact muscles lining my abdomen. Despite them being cleverly hidden under a layer of… well a layer, they’ve been engaged from incessant coughing more than a gym full of Pilates.

Strange experience seeing myself turn into a giant man-child, and at least somewhat humorous to observe from a safe biohazard distance, no doubt. While the terrifying mirrored visage I see staring back every morning of this life will likely remain, at least I don’t look like a cast extra from an apocalypse movie. Progress?

All of my well-medicated and delusional joking aside, this thing has sucked, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. So do yourself a favour and get your flu shot when it becomes available. The world will always be there to remind us COVID isn’t the only game in town.

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