It’s official: I’m sick. And it’s really starting to piss me off.
Remember on Saturday how I told you about all the drippage and stopped uppiness happening in my head and nasal cavities and the way your ears get all stoppy then poppy like they do on an airplane? Yeah, it’s still happening. And it’s freaking Tuesday, darn it.
If you ask me, allergies and head colds really are the worst kind of sick out of all the common human sicknesses. I would much rather toss my cookies a few times and get it over with than sneeze and sniffle for eleven gazillion days at a time. But instead I am left to suffer in silence complain loudly to coworkers, friends and my husband as I go in and out of consciousness from the cold meds.
Seriously, what is in that stuff? I’m completely with it and fully functioning one minute, then things get kind of fuzzy and time stops and the next thing I know I wake up in an ice bath missing a kidney.
Note to self: stop shopping for medicine at the dollar store.
I hate to be sick, I really do. Especially when it’s the kind of sick where you don’t feel super duper terrible, just moderately “bleh” and significantly less fabulous than usual. The lack of fabulousness is incredibly troubling. I wore gray today and I haven’t painted my nails since last Thursday.
Because my brain is high on cold meds – or because I’m a few chips short of a Taco Bueno combo meal, tomayto tomahto – I have compiled a mostly coherent list of things that irk me only slightly less than prolonged, anticlimactic seasonal illness.
- Miley Cyrus’ androgynous haircut.
- When Mexican restaurants make their margaritas really mix-ey and there’s only thismuch tequila in them. What is this, prohibition?
- Not being able to wear flip flops because it’s too cold outside.
- That gray hair I found this morning.
- My cats’ habit of scarfing each bowl of food as if it will be their last, then promptly throwing it up on the rug.
- Joffrey Baratheon.
- The way Andy aggressively turns on the light when it’s time to wake up in the mornings. I’m going to get up eventually Hess, probably, just give me a minute. Or thirty.
- The fact that I am not, and likely never will be, Meryl Streep.
- When my food is over.
Aaaaaand that’s all I got today, folks. Thanks for stopping by my crazy, drug-fueled corner of these here interwebz. Wife in Training, over and out.