Chicken Soup for the Crotchety Soul

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.

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