I’ve been knocked over by a truck. That’s what it feels like anyway. The medical term for my miserable state is the flu. Three little letters don’t do much to describe how horrible it feels.
Dogs don’t care if you are sick. They still want out. Repeatedly.
When it gets really boring lying on the couch it can be the highlight of your day to move your pillow to the other end for a different view.
There seems to be no limit to how many times you can cough in a day.
You really do lose your appetite with the flu.
What this town needs is a drugstore that delivers. I’d really like some Robitussin DM and berry flavored Propel if anyone wants to don a doctor’s mask and come over.
I haven’t left the house since Friday, I’ve been feverish and in pajamas since Saturday (I change them every day, don’t be so grossed out) and it’s too tiring to even play on the internets.
That’s all for now, time for Nyquil and to move the sick camp (water, cough drops, kleenex, thermometer, chapstick and humidifier) back to the bedroom.
Oh, and two thumbs down to Brian’s work for making him go out of town this week. The only thing worse than being sick is being home alone sick.