Exhaling Pop Rocks

I'm dying. It's that simple. And honestly it is a relief to finally come to terms with my impending and inevitable expiration.

I check my temperature, for the third time in 10 minutes: holding steady at 98.6. To the casual observer, 98.6 may sound "normal"...or "average"...or "ordinary"...or "typical". But I take great pride in being an informed participant in my own physical and mental health, and I happen to know that according to this thermometer, "normal" for my unsick body is actually 96.8! Therefore, at 98.6 I am feverish, febrile, fiery, and flushed, and rambling more or less directly down the slippery slope to death's door.

Because I am generally given neither to hyperbole nor to embellishment -- I'll admit to occasional verbal aggrandizement but that's different-- it must be acknowledged that I am in a very serious situation. It is 2:00 in the morning and I am alone. Ken and Emma are comfortably and healthily wrapped in their cocoons of silent and selfish slumber, while I eke out the last minutes of my short life, alone on the futon, fighting my delirium in order to play my next few turns on Words with Friends.

I cautiously inhale and it feels as though I've just sucked up an entire hill full of ants. I attempt to exhale and I gasp and choke and splutter and..um...well...cough. It is a packet of Pop Rocks powder in my lungs. My eyes bulge from the effort and veins stand out on the side of my head, and yes, I did bring a small pocket size mirror into the den with me, so I know. It is important to chronicle all details for the future use of the Emergency Room staff. When the next round hits, I attempt to hold my breath rather than exhale. I really have no explanation for this tactic. Blame it on the fever. This stratagem ends in the near disastrous result of my head exploding: body fluids bursting out of cranial orifices like too much fizz in a bottle of pop.

Exhausted from the effort of coughing, debilitated from the effort of not coughing, I quickly finish my BuzzFeed quiz (Rapunzel, and I should live in Hawaii) and feebly fold in half over my pillow. I whip out the mirror again and notice that my eyelids are getting heavy. I cough and I wheeze and I splutter and I gasp and I even choke, for good measure, as I gradually drift into syncope, having narrowly avoided The End this once. But who knows if my luck will hold out the next time my allergies flare up. I recommend that you send chocolate, or more chocolate (flowers aren't edible), sooner rather than later -- just in case.