The Tickle turned ugly within 24 hours. Went home sick Thursday afternoon and have spent most of the time since either in bed or sitting in a chair wishing my back would stop hurting so I could go back to bed. The worst part about being sick is I can't be anything else. I can't write, or read, or even watch TV because I'm just too miserable. All I can really do is lie there and wish for death. I didn't, because, frankly, I've been sicker, but I came close.
I did keep up with Farmville, through one slitted eye and with kleenex stuffed up my nose, but we all know how addicts are. Gotta get my fix, right?
Even though left nostril continues to dribble, I'm going to work. I can't stay in this house any longer.
That's not true. I have no problem with the house. It's the cess pit the arborists left of my backyard that I can't look at anymore.
Yes, the tree-trimmers came Friday and left total destruction in their wake. They churned up my yard, turning black soil into clay clumps. Still not sure how they managed that. The plumbers had a 20 foot backhoe out there for two days and dug up 90% of my yard, and yet did less damage than four arborists with one tiny backhoe who left cigarette butts, fallen branches, broken paving stones, a downed phone line and a hole in my neighbor's siding.
So, in between bouts of cold medicine, I suffer crying jags and waffle between suicidal and homicidal urges.
That's not true. I've not had a single suicidal urge.
I have had serious concerns about my sanity. I need the cold to go away or snow to come and hide the backyard. 'Cause I can't handle both.