Whatever

I have nothing to write, except that's not true at all.  There are at least four post in the back of my head, which seem to be less significant as the weeks go on.  Instead, I'm huddled in bed, scrunched up Kleenex surrounding me, medicine cups sticky with strangely colored liquids, an old tennis sweatshirt with stretched sleeves on, watching horribly good pilots from the 90s on the laptop, needing to put in earplugs because I can't hear from the computer speakers, exhausted, pumping fluids into my body, and hoping that I'll have a few hours of energy during my days off. 

The last two days have been the kind of days that seep into your bones.  You don't realize how hard they are until you come to the end of the day and feel that achiness.  You pushed through, you were tough, but the hard-ache still resonates.   Work has been tough, and it seems like death is following me inside and out of it.  So, I made a decision to ask for help yesterday on my commute home.  Find a replacement for tomorrow, if you can.  They could, and it was a good thing too because my immune system was under attack and I didn't even know it yet. 

Maybe my body is letting down its guard because it knows that I need to rest.  And nothing is better for it than three doses of Airborne and Crystal light in a large Smart Water bottle, hot hot hot baths, dinosaur chicken nuggets, and a stack of magazines that makes the girl at Safeway say, "Gee, that added up fast." 

I have three days off and I might spend 2.5 of them in bed, covered in feathers from a down comforter that has a hole chewed in one of its corner. 

It's okay though, I stapled it shut.  That's all I have energy to do right now. 


I might write more tomorrow.  Doubt it though.  If I do, then we can all be surprised.  

That picture has nothing to do with this.  But, you're welcome.