One of the crappiest things about getting sick — having a cold, in this case — as a grownup, is that it turns you into an overtired toddler.
I want, yet do not want:
- to be awake
- to sleep more
- to eat
- to eat liquid things (soup)
- to eat solid things (waffles… waffles?)
- to not eat because I have only partial taste ability and nothing strikes me as yum
- to drink
- to drink cold beverages
- to drink hot beverages
- to not drink because getting up to pee is too much work
- to read a book
- to watch past episodes of House
- for someone to bring me OJ and chicken soup
- for people to go away and leave me alone
- for my kitty to curl up on my tummy
- for my kitty to get the hell off me — OWOWOW SKIN HURTS BOOBS HURT OW!
Additionally upsetting is the fact that this cold is most likely Andrew’s fault, except, as usual, he’s much sicker than I am — with a doctor visit and drugs and everything — and so I cannot hate him (even as I wonder how he can blow anything out that tiny nose).
Plus, having aching skin so you reallyreallyreally don’t want to wear a bra at the same time as you have rampant PMS boobs and would LOVE a bra made of cast iron so nothing can move ever? Well that’s just proof that God is MEAN.