You see an enchanting figure across the room–tussling her long, blonde hair. You watch as it slowly brushes against her tan skin and fabulous, perfectly round ass and think, “oh, that’s the perfect girl.” But you are wrong. Because sitting in a hospital bed, plugged into a ventilator, I am waiting for you to realize–I am the one for you.
I’m not like other girls. I don’t have a soft, sexy voice–I exude the hoarse echo of three months worth of coughing, and not in the sexy Amy Winehouse way. My skin is not soft and clean-shaven–it’s covered in a mysterious skin rash that is apparently a symptom of my virus. Most of the time, my head just feels like a container filled with phlegm–sexy, I know.
But ironically, COVID has made me the perfect romantic candidate. I won’t need to steal your hoodies–I’ve maintained an internal temperature over 100 for weeks now. Anything you do will take my limited breath away–imagine what that could do for your confidence. You can play video games with your friends for as long as you want–it’s not like I’d have the energy to go out even if I wasn’t in strict isolation. Weeks of incessant nausea and vomiting have made my frame petite–perfect for holding and making you feel strong, large and masculine (as long as you wear a hazmat suit, of course). I’m also happy to give you and your friends some of my pain medication–just because I can’t smoke and sip lean doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.
I think I’ve made a convincing case for myself here, but as a last ditch effort, just remember–you don’t need to spit if you don’t have a sense of taste.
