surfing: brand x

1999 september 13

the sick house

for all i know, we had a perfectly beautiful weekend over here.

i personally spent it in my pajamas, curled up in the chair watching sports while blowing my nose again and again and again. then i would sleep, cough, cough, cough some more, get up and drink more juice, start the whole routine over again.

je deteste summer colds, especially late summer colds when you have wrongly assumed you made it through the season unscathed.

gene had his own woes, he somehow wrenched himself and so he too spent most of the weekend in a chair or in the bed, feeling as though someone had worked him over with a tire iron, and groaning a very pitiful groan whenever he had to get up out of the bed or chair.

even peter parker didn't seem his usual obnoxious black self. he didn't want to sit on my lap, where he almost always hangs out, and he spent most of the weekend sleeping in strange places, like above the dryer on the dirty clothes, or under the desk in a plastic basket full of bills [not that he truly fit into the box or anything, but he seemed comfortable enough, although he may just have been catatonic and didn't realize how uncomfortable he was], or sprawled out like some sort of cat snake on the entryway tiles.

this morning peter parker seems much better, ate his food with gusto and bitched me out when i wouldn't let him out to romp in the early morning air, gene seems much better with fewer groans, a little less sleep and a little more mobility, and a better appetite. but me? i am still sneezing and coughing and blowing my nose and generally feeling like a walking nyquil commercial.

life is so rudely unfair, since i am the only one who had to go to work today.

buying more stock in kleenex, claire

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