Big Sigh.

So. I’m still sick.

Now mind you, I’m not sick enough to condone skipping another week of blogging…I’m currently sitting up at work wearing clothes other than pajamas, and that means my responsibilities to Unwind must again be met.

But I’ll warn you now, my brain is still not working on all 4 or 6 or 8 cylinders (which one is it? I think it’s 6), and writing is like pulling teeth without Lidocaine. I’m just not myself right now; I fell asleep yesterday during an episode of “Friends,” for God’s sake. Normally I would never commit such an act of irreverence.

And the most infuriating thing about all this is, when looked at objectively, I’m not that sick. I have an upper respiratory infection, otherwise known as the common cold. So on top of blowing the contents of my head out through my nose every 4th minute and feeling as if my eyes are going to pop out of my very skull, I get to feel bad about feeling bad. If I’m being unproductive at work because my brain is pulsating, I feel bad. If I opt to sleep open-mouthed and snoring on the couch instead of having a sushi date with Hunter, I feel bad. It’s a lose-lose situation, people. And I’ve been lose-losing for TWELVE STRAIGHT DAYS.

On day 2 of my puniness I went to my doctor’s office, where I was given a “prescription” for Mucinex (which, by the by, is an OTC drug) and a B-12 shot. The B-12 shot was my idea; I had hoped it would perk me up and allow me to power through, but instead it gave me a sore arm and made me sick to my stomach. Perhaps I don’t yet deserve my MD.

On day 7 I went back up to the doctor’s office (after calling them repeatedly to no avail on day 6), and there I was greeted by a frighteningly inhospitable receptionist who was convinced I was out to get her and the entire Norman community. In her defense I’m not exactly a burst of sunshine when ill, but this lady was no burst of sunshine herself and she wasn’t sick. So we spat at each other for several minutes until it became clear that I wasn’t getting in to see a doctor of any kind, and I left to continue my newfound routine of whimpering, popping cold meds, and feeling miserably sorry for myself.

Then on day 9 I finally threw in the towel and went back to the Land of the Hatefuls (ahem, the dreaded doctor’s) to beg for medicinal aid and perhaps some hot tea. Once there a kind-eyed nurse took pity on my soul and convinced a PA to give me a Z-pack…if you didn’t already know it, nurses run the medical system.

And now three days later, here I am. Snot-nosed, grumpy, and on antibiotics that make me ridiculously nauseous.

It’s a great day to be alive.

Due to my current physical state, I suggest you not try to take great meaning away from this week’s post. I mean, I just reread what I’ve jarbled out so far, and it’s obvious to even me that I got NOTHIN. Give me another week or so for the antibiotics to kick in and my will to live to resurface, and maybe I’ll be able to churn out something a little more socially relevant than a detailed account of my head cold (although, one of you buggers gave this to me so it should be pretty damn relevant to you). But until the day comes that I no longer have to carry around a personal box of tissues, this is what you get.

Now, I’m off to drink some Airborne and feel bad that I didn’t write a better blog.

Much love.

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