I’m dead. I totally fucking died. Or, more specifically, I am fantasizing about being dead as I imaging the long cold nothing is preferable to the half gallon of invasive galactic mucous in my sinuses.
At some point over night the ‘irritating cold’ turned into ‘achy painy mucousy voice loss with eye boogers the size of the Brawny Man’s farts and utter fat girl exhaustion’.
Today was David’s first day back to work after the holidays. I promptly got up and started his coffee etc and promptly wished I was more of a dick and stayed in bed instead of getting him off to work with two apples in his back pack and hot coffee in his hand (in a travel mug, I’m not burning him).
I emailed work, I got really really hot, I sat down, i prayed for death. The thing about being sick is everything is broken down into minutia and every bit of minutia becomes its own novel. I would love to write 3 paragraphs on how cute Chester’s toes are right this SECOND (they are super cute and round and he has the tiniest bit of white fur growing around them and if you gently tickle the fur around his toes it drives him crazy). I ate pasta for dinner at like 9:30 last night, but I’m already really hungry. The next Nobel Prize for awesomeness should be awarded to the dude who invented the baby carrot. How awesome is that?