Sick at school: way too much information
By Christopher DaCosta
As if visions of ribbon adorned, cotton-tailed vermin weren't enough, I was writhing with discomfort over Easter weekend. The culprit? Some might call it an overdose on cheap, chocolate eggs, I prefer to call it a vile and despicable stomach bug poised to hijack the temple I call my body.
Between nausea, incontinence and delusions of grandeur, I saw my sanity rival that of any of MTV's "I want a famous face" subjects. I was losing it â€" not just bowel control, but also my mind.
The trajectory of my illness confined me primarily to my bed or to the ultimate altar of holiness â€" my very own porcelain god whom I affectionately call Paco. Who said that idolatry was the work of the devil? Paco has always listened to my fever-induced confessions.
Unfortunately, my excessive worshipping did detract from my important field studies in the realm of pop culture. Luckily, my generous roommates (who were suffering from the equally debilitating effects of La Victoria burritos) made room on the couch.
Sure, I may have missed out on my daily dose of Deborah Norville, host of the D-grade underdog entertainment news show, "Inside Edition," but I was able to catch the filet mignon of all entertainment news mongering â€" VH1's "Best Week Ever" marathon.
The gab-gifted television personalities regaled me with one-liners about Paris Hilton's nipples' exploits both in and out of her shirt as well as the fad diet epidemic. This reminded me of the fact that subsisting only on soup and toast had afforded me a fusion of the coveted "baggy pants" look circa 1992 and the super-waif sunken eyes motif.
In my delirium I discovered the perks, though meager, that come with suffering an illness while living on a college campus.
I have been inundated with looks of sympathy from notoriously stern professors to callously obnoxious roommates. I love playing the game and milking the offers of hot broth and foot massages for all they're worth.
Additionally, the doctors at Cowell Health Center came bearing gifts, which not only consisted of medication, but soda, Gatorade and crackers.
Although my fashion sense may have taken a plunge lower than the appropriateness of Kelis' "Milkshake," I've found that plaid pajama pants and comfy sweatshirts have been a staple in my infirmary attire.
Yesterday, I was overjoyed to realize that I was finally able to wash the stench of death off of my skin. After my shower, I felt a spring in my step and no bugs in my stomach. I finally have my life back - no more delirious conversations with Starchie (my potato-shaped pillow, remember) and no more vivid hallucinations of my old friend Jigglet, the rabid but gregarious squirrel. Watch out weekend, I'm back!
û Contact Christopher DaCosta at (408) 554-4546 or cdacosta@scu.edu.