Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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Like my brownhouse:
   time for a covid poop
Sunday, May 8 2022
Yesterday I'd managed to spend the entire day in the tiny space of the greenhouse upstairs (measuring only about six by fourteen feet), going no further than its deck to get things brought by Gretchen or to urinate. Today, though, I had to expand my range for several reasons. First of all, Gretchen finally tested positive for covid, so there was no reason for me to quarantine away from her. Another reason was that at some point today I had to poop. This led to me using the brownhouse for the first time in something like nine months (a scary-looking spider in the piss trough made me stop using it last summer, and then drips from the overflowing cistern made me not want to use it in the winter either). The poop I produced was initial normal, though weirdly green in color. Soon thereafter it turned entirely to diarrhea, the kind that can take the form of sharts of the incautious. (This would lead me to wash out my sweat pants in the house's basement guest bathroom, which is easily reached from the direction of the greenhouse.)
My condition overall was largely the same as it had been yesterday, though I was more functional as a human being, perhaps just because I had grown accustomed to my state and discovered that, at least when not experiencing a bad wave of fever, walking around was not too unpleasant). My sore throat was just as sore, my waves of mild fever about as frequent, and my coughing up of large plugs of phlegm just as regular. I now had less of an appetite, possibly due to intestinal distress related to my lower intestine (as already described). I found that a pepto-bismol-like pill was good for quelling my gut discomfort, but when I went to the house this evening with the intention of getting something to eat, the only thing I could imagine swallowing was fruit juice. Three different friends had rallied on hearing the news that everyone in our household now had covid, and we now had lots of containers of various soups. But the idea of eating something savory horrified me. Down in the greenhouse, I was letting Oscar the Cat nibble away at what remained of the noodle bake Gretchen had brought me yesterday. (Oscar was being unusually understanding of my condition and was content to lie on a dog bed by the door of the greenhouse instead of insisting (as he normally would) on parading back and forth across my belly and chest.
As I had the last time I'd been cursed with an illness forcing me to regularly hack up phlegm, I'd decided to start spitting the phlegm into a beer can. A beer can is only 12 ounces and at the rate I was hacking up phlegm, I could've easily filled it in a day. So at some point I had to dump the horrifying accumulation out, rinse out the can, and start spitting into it anew. I did the dumping along the walk to the outdoor spigot outside the basement master guestroom and then rinsed it as thoroughly as I could there.


For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?220508

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