Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I haven’t been outside since last Wednesday. Is everything still the same out there? Have the zombie legions come skulking through the turf yet? I wouldn’t know. Cars could finally be flying and I’d have no idea because some mysterious virus has rendered me a shut-in.
I thought I was feeling better on Friday, so I exercised. Then I got sick again. Then on Saturday, I thought I was feeling better. So I exercised. Then I got sick again. I felt better that night so I watched “Paranormal Activity.” The realization that I wasted 90 minutes watching two of the bitchiest people ever to get a movie deal made me get sick all over again. Every time I get off the couch, my muscles get all trembly and my hands turn to ice-mitts and I basically roam around with a sad look on my face until Henry catches me afoot and yells, “YOU’RE SICK, WHY DON’T YOU REST, STUPID?”
Since Wednesday, I have eaten little other than cheese sandwich halves, frozen yogurt, and have had an undeniably craving for Orange Julius. And even those decidedly non-menacing foodstuffs leave me floating inside a nausea balloon. I’m not pregnant, so don’t even joke about that. Seriously, just don’t. Nothing pisses me off more than when someone insinuates that I don’t know I have a fetus incubating inside me, like I’m some fucking failure of a woman who can’t tell the signs. And if I were pregnant? Well, move over Mary. There’s a new angel-fucked bitch in town.
It feels like The Mono, to be frank.
All I know is that I want to be playing outside the house someday soon. Maybe in February? If society will still have me by then. Please, don’t forget about me, society.
Also, this shit looks like a good time-passer. Ask me a question so I can have something to do while stewing in my pity.