For some reason this whole fiasco makes it easier to get Kate Bush stuck in my head

So I'm brushing my teeth yesterday evening, minding my own business, when all of a sudden my mouth fills up with blood.

Spitting up about a teaspoon of red toothpaste, I stare into the sink for a minute, then look at the mirror and open my mouth. A small man in a blue waistcoat and a top hat is swinging like Tarzan from my uvula, kicking my tonsils with every upswing. When he notices that my mouth is open, he hops onto my tongue, wiping a little excess blood from his shoe off on his pant leg.

"Ah, good." He says. He shrugs his lapels forward and sighs happily. "I was hoping that would get your attention."

"Whaa aweeo eooou ooingk?" I ask, impressed that he managed to stay erect on my gesturing tongue.

"Well I had to do something. Honestly, my dear." He hops onto my lip and from there onto the faucet. "The only way to get you to see a doctor about anything is to kill you. You'll probably spend more time with a mortician than any physician."

"What do you mean?" I spit again. Not so bad this time. The little man sits on the rim of the sink while I rinse out the blood and fill a glass of water.

"Well, Meagan, look." He crosses his tiny, tiny arms. "You've had trouble swallowing for over a week now. The glands on the side of your throat, the ones that swell up to let you know that you're sick, have been the size of golf balls for a week. And you haven't seen a doctor."

"But there aren't any white spots and I don't have any other symptoms. It's not strep."

"Your tonsils are bleeding. You hit your tonsil with a toothbrush, the most un-knife-like implement..."

"No, you were kicking me."

"I am not real. You are imagining me. You hit your tonsil with a toothbrush, and now you look like someone in a Brian De Palma movie."

"Or Lavinia in Titus Andronicus."

"Or Lavinia in Titus Andronicus. Point is, that isn't good."

I shrug. "Think of all those times I've been sick before and didn't need a doctor."

"That," The man says, climbing like a gecko (in a waistcoat) up my sleeve, "is a fantastic outlook. Really capital." He strolls across my shoulder and punches me in the neck."

"Ow! That's tender! And you're not even real!"

"Go see a doctor."

"No, I...I hate doctors. Doctors are the people who tell you that you could die."

"The internet tells you that too, and you go there all the time."

"Fine. FINE. I'll go tomorrow."

"Good. You should get some rest tonight then."

"What? No. GOD no. I'm missing a birthday and dancing party tonight. I'm miserable and I miss my friends."

"You poor baby."

"I'm getting drunk. Well, first I am going for Italian food, and then I am getting drunk. Not wasted, but just drunk enough that I can cry. A lot."

The little man mutters something and disappears into a tiny tiny purple cloud that smells like self-loathing.



So yeah, I'm off to see the doctor's now. And yes, I did get drunk and weepy last night. But in all truth, I likely have tonsilitis, or strep (even though I doubt that), so I need hella antibiotics.