Tuesday I went to work feeling fine. By the end of shift, I sounded like my days of chain smoking cigars and drinking whiskey had finally caught up with me. When I got home, the man of the house informed me that after radiologist review, the docs have decided that he has pneumonia. So he picked up meds for that. Meanwhile, the boy is camped out on the couch and probably will stay there for a few more days. He might feel well enough to move out just in time for me to move in. What I'd really like is to have a good couple hours to wash all the couch bedding and the cover, because man is it vile after two sick people stewing on it for days on end.
The hours will come, but they probably won't be good hours. They'll be sick hours, hours where I'll be wondering whatever happened to the magnificent immune system that kept me well through the traditional cold and flu season. Currently I (merely) can't hear out of one ear and my throat is sore. I'm not plagued with the hacking, bubbly cough and 103+ temp the man and the boy suffered (and are still suffering) through. It's early in the game, but I'm hopeful. I've seen viruses come and go with nary and sneeze. Maybe, after a brief period of misery, I'll shake this off and return to work my shift victorious and undaunted. Huzzah! I might even have the strength to wash the bedding before I crash to sleep on the couch for twenty out of twenty four hours after all.
Stupid poopyhead virus. I guess it's making the rounds with a vengeance. What it's avenging, I don't know. Maybe we didn't feed the birds well enough this winter. Maybe I ordered that steam cleaner part too late to prevent some sort of carpet crisis. It can't really be my fault, can it? If you think it's my fault, check this box:
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