It’s amazing how much a real, bonda-fide sickness can make you not give a fuck about the other circumstances in your life.
Boyfriend wants to talk to other bitches? Let him.
Roommates want to be typical roommates? Let them.
I honestly could give a fuck.
Tonight I “ran away” to the Barnes & Noble, where I spent a little under two hours writing in my paper journal and wishing I could have a slice of Pumpkin Cheesecake. Then the chills started, and the pain when I swallowed became more than just a nuisance. Still I stayed, because going home to deal with assholes was not on my agenda. I perused cooking magazines and career books and tried to get back into Janet Evanovich’s Lean Mean Thirteen, which I have been trying unsuccessfully to read for about six months even though I really enjoy the book. All this time, i was coughing and snotting, but trying to do so discreetly.
Then there was the vomiting, at which point I decided everyone at my house could get fucked. I was coming home and no, I wasn’t going to entertain any conversations about whose turn it is to take out the garbage.
I feel like walking death right now, though the “walking” part is questionable. I’d really call it more of a hobble. Turns out I’ve been getting sick for a while, but the Claritin I’d been taking (and am currently out of) masked the symptoms.
To do:
- Get more Claritin
- Get orange juice
- Tell everyone here to get fucked
