The Post in which I Complain About Being Sick

I have a cold.

Not just any cold.  This cold has pretty much left me incapacitated for the week.  I think I’ve been to… one class.  All week.  And I fell asleep in it.  I’ve worked a grand total of five hours.  I’ve been drinking orange juice, slurping soup, popping pills, and I still feel disgusting.  Just in case you still don’t have an idea, let me describe it to you:

I’m pretty sure Satan with all his hellfire and brimstone is in my sinuses,

My face feels like its covered in the thickest, itchiest wool ever made,

And if the whole of the Black Death plague could be confined to one area of the body, I’m pretty sure that’s an accurate description of how my stomach feels.

And I’m soooo tired.

Too tired to watch a movie, but in too much pain to fall asleep.  I thought I might write in my journal, but then I realized any memory I could possibly try to pen right now would end up jaded by my current circumstances.

So I thought I’d write this little story about my sickness—a story in which I am entitled to sound a little pessimistic, and I’m succeeding at it, by the way.

I’m so sick and so tired.  And I’m so sick and tired of being sick and tired.  I’m bored stiff, and I don’t ever get bored!  I’m so bored, in fact, that I texted random people in my phone asking them to send an assassin to my apartment to put me out of my misery.

I thought it would brighten my day.  Until I realized that all the people I texted are out living lives, enjoying the cloudy, Fall day, and actually accomplishing things.

I hope that assassin comes...