Coffee and Cough Syrup

By Eva Fottrell

After walking an underwhelming amount of time, I’m always confronted by how
unhealthy I am. But today was different. I was experiencing the consequences of my
exercise routine, or lack thereof, and a sniffle. Realizing I hadn’t started my homework
due that night just aggravated my illness. My last task of the day was to just get home.
So, like a Civil War soldier, I had to carry myself to my apartment: the Safe Zone.
My immune system as my musket, the cough syrup in the cabinet as my bullets, and my
incomplete homework as my last letter to my dearly beloved.
I unsurprisingly made it home and took a shot of the cough syrup immediately.
The warmth of the alcohol helped me forget I hadn’t eaten since noon. This is where I
like to say my illness took over my judgement. That’s of course what I would like to say;
the truth is that common cold doesn’t do that, and I was just desperate. Moral of the
story, I decided to make coffee at 7pm, and I drank three cups.

I had most of my homework finished by the time the effects of the caffeine were
gearing up. But I realized something was terribly wrong. My brain was falling asleep, but
my body was vibrating like a tuning fork. Like I had injected myself with Batman’s green
adrenaline only ever used as a last resort. I finished my work, and I got up, nearly
collapsing. I changed into pajamas quickly, turned off the lights, and got in bed.
I started to feel like what I imagine some seasoned NFL players experience.
Ready to sprint the field, or provide convoluted sports commentary, but doing it all while
forgetting the names of the teams playing. I laid in bed with my eyes wide open, flat-
backed like Dracula for 15 minutes and realized sleep wasn’t gonna happen. The
bookshelf across my room started to give me funny looks so I sat up. I was considering
a fight, but after turning on the light I realized although it was rectangular it wasn’t
actually squaring up. The more I stared, it began to look out of place. In fact, all my
furniture looked wrong. It was begging to be changed and moved like a cult member.
And like Charles Manson, I was about to kill the feng shui, and my back.
I got up, dizzy yet determined, and started to push my bookshelf. Forgetting to
first take the books off, it was as heavy as a farm animal... or maybe just a normal
animal, but not a house pet... maybe a Great Dane. Anyhow, I managed to move it
across my room. I was pleased with its position now but not in relation to the other
objects. So, with my vision becoming less and less reliable, and with the mattress still
on it, I started to pull my bed frame out. During that process, I kicked the wood frame as
hard as ever and fell on my butt. On the floor holding my inflamed toes, I peeked over at
the alarm clock that read 12:47am. Where the time had gone, I wasn’t sure, but I was
sure done harassing my furniture.
Sat on my floor, my body inched closer to my mind because of the pain, and a
wave of regret flood over me because of my behavior over the previous few hours lost.
It was like if I was a parent not mad, just disappointed in their child, but I was also the
child. My new open-concept renovation was starting to become less gratifying, and I
realized just like taking a temporary lover, I would be less pleased with myself in the
morning. I then thought, “By god, what am I going to do now?”
I couldn’t move everything back in the morning. I knew I had things to do, and I
was self-aware enough to realize tomorrow would be one of those sleeping in until 11
days. So, I got up off the ground, ready to undo all my hard labor, and fainted.
I woke up the next morning feeling like my bookshelf had actually beat me up.
But I also realized something, my sniffle was gone.