My son is so generous. First, for Christmas, he gave us the stomach flu.
Now he gave me, and only me, some awful super cold. I've had a fever, sneezing and chills and aches and just general yuckiness. I can't write. All I want to do is sleep. Which, for me, is like being locked up for life. I'm used to being handy and helpful and productive. Instead I sound like I've been smoking for 50 years, my throat had somehow grown a Brillo pad, and there's coughing. Painful coughing. The ice-pocolypse is coming in the morning so all my fellow Okies have panicked, ransacked the local stores and cancelled schools. So at least I don't have to get up early and take the little petri dish to class in the morning. I can sleep in late and rest.
Lord, can I just, for a few days, be well? So I can finish my book? Please?
On a brighter note, I blew a bunch of Hot Cash at Hot Topic today, and my husband ordered me an awesome new laptop. I have to just look at the bright side.