I'm One Sick Puppy: Please Call a Doctor

I admit that I'm technically not a medical professional, so it might not be Ebola that's stricken me; it could be the plague.

Regardless, it's not good. I know it's that time of year called the "flu season," but that's a horrible misnomer because nobody ever actually gets the flu. (If you don't believe me, go to Student Health, where they will tell you that you do not have the flu.)

I'm fairly confident that everyone has suffered from this mystery ailment at one point in their life, but as a public service I'm going to further our understanding of "non-flu."

The longest running symptom of this seems to be this incredibly annoying headache that I fear might never subside.

I'm really not sure how to describe it except by saying that I'm pretty sure having a 747 land on my head would feel marginally better. Actually, right now, I'm praying for a 747 to land on me.

Wouldn't it be nice if a headache was the only problem in my head?

There aren't many feelings worse than firmly believing that my nose has been closed with a runny concrete mixture and that my throat is somewhere between swollen shut and on fire.

However, the delirium that goes along with this sickness is just unbearable. I am in need of some very good medication to combat the induced psychosis.

This weekend something happened that I'm entirely blaming on either the infection or the drugs (or even a combo), but I uttered the 15 most horrifying words in the English language.

"Oh my God. The Britney Spears movie sounds like the best one at the theater." Not only was I delusional enough to say that, but a mere few hours later I could be heard muttering the words, "Two for the 3:25 p.m. 'Crossroads,' please."

Somebody shoot me! Please! Anyone!

(Side note: Don't really shoot me -- I'm not a fan of the gunshot wound.)

I do realize that this level of insanity should have me placed in a mental institution, but that's not the point here. The thing to focus on is that this is a horrifying malady and it only getting worse.

In the spirit of the Olympic Games, I'd like to suggest a new sport for future Olympiads: bathroom sprinting. This would be the coolest (and the grossest) sport ever.

Competitors would be placed at random locations throughout the host city, and on a moment's notice they have to find a socially acceptable place to deposit projectile vomit and/or explosive diarrhea. Given my recent level of training, I'm certain to take the gold (provided that the French judges behave).

There are a few other things to remember (fever, body aches and sudden death), but they're not very important. (Though I will say, feeling like your internal organs are actually melting really sucks.) The vital thing for you to know is how to treat this.

Tragically, there is no known cure. I've tried a few home remedies (mostly a fifth of Captain Morgan), but they only seemed to make things worse. The only idea that's seemed reasonably close is lying in bed and whining like a baby to anyone who will listen.

Sadly the only person who seems to care is several hundred miles away, leaving me to fend for myself in this trying time.

So, my new plan involves me sitting here until I finally puke up my spleen. Out of all of the organs that could come out, the spleen seems like a fun one.

I guess I shouldn't complain about this too much. After all, I am being quite gracious in allowing this unknown virus/bacteria/platypus into my body, and that seems really nice of me.

I'm not charging it rent nor am I making it clean up after itself. Now why can't it be that nice to me?

Travis Raines has not eaten solid food since Sunday afternoon. This was before he saw the Britney Spears movie, and he's not entirely convinced the two events are unrelated. You may share your insights and chicken soup with him at traines@unc.edu.