So, today I woke up feeling...well...less wretched. On a scale of gross to amazing, I'd say I feel scumlike, which is slightly better than hideous, but worse than bloatfish. But these are all shades of a sort of sickly yellowish khaki.
Because I was able to stand up today without vomiting, I of course thought "You're fine. Don't be such a baby." And I got laundry together. My logic was something like Sure I feel scumlike, but I can stand up, and doing laundry isn't exactly labor intensive. After all, this is the age of modern conveniences. (That's what I love most about flashbacks. They make one sound so much more intelligent than one is in reality.) But after fifteen minutes of being the tribal laundry hunter/gatherer, I collapsed once more upon the couch that has been home sweet home for three days.
I asked the Pirate whether I should go to work tomorrow, and he said the most useful thing he's ever said with regards to my being under the weather. He said "No. Don't go in." He pointed out that when I am ill, I have the tendency toward a sort of delusion which leads me to believe that five minutes of consecutive consciousness without vomiting is the same as being "well." Which, apparently, it isn't. This is why I love him. Because he's not only smarter than me, but willing to take his life into his own hands by admitting it.
I don't know how the rest of the world copes with being ill. I hate it. This is why I don't own a handgun. Because it would be so tempting to shoot
You thought I was going to say "ME," didn't you? Heh. No, I know that I'll get better. I'm not as daft as all that. Really, you know whom I'd like to shoot? The sick, viscious bastard at Vick's who decided that making Nyquil taste like saccharinetequilavomit was a GOOD IDEA. And then, I'm going to find his sick, twisted cow-orker who decided to mutate it into CHERRY saccharinetequilavomit.
They deserve to die much moreso than I do.