I just slept 17 of the past 18 hours. It think this makes what I have an official 'sickness.'
"What variety of sick?", might you ask, being a curious person who is concerned for an internetly friend. Ah, friends, 'tis a glorious sick indeed. It's the barfy, ass-pee kind of sick that makes you want to curl up n' die. The kind of icky gastrointestinal sick that shows you how well you chew, how quickly you digest, and just exactly how sensitive your stomach is while you're in the head-up toilet position.
Go on, read between those lines. We've all been there.
It's the kind of sick that waters eyes, flushes then whitens skin, shivers timbers and bones, cramps intestines, empties guts, and I despise it and the infection it rode in on.
At first I blamed the bourbon, but this ain't no hangover. This is for real.
I hate being sick, and so in response I sleep, for if I can't FEEL the sick perhaps it will get huffy and go away.
So, the sleeping. Lots and lots of sleeping.
It seems as though this strategy may have worked rather well, because the good news is, at 4:45 p.m. it seems the corner has been turned. I haven't puked in 8 hours, am no longer shivering beneath two comforters, and the thought of food doesn't make my spit taste like hate.
So, there ya go. One thing for which to be thankful on this was-to-have-been very busy Monday. Hope y'all are doing well, and that sunshine and rainbows are your constant companions.
See you tomorrow.