I’m late, I know. I didn’t feel like moving. I woke up just before the alarm was slated to go off, feeling decidedly icky, and aware that both of us were awake. My brain had just reached the point where I could wonder if the alarm was set when it started. I stayed in bed until Shawshank left for work, trying to sleep. When that failed, I grabbed a pillow and tried the couch, which worked out better in terms of comfort, if not quality of sleep.
And thus we began the hourly cycle of chills/sweats. I think it’d been building up a bit, as I hadn’t felt “right” the last few days. Shawshank pointed out I was sick at this time last year as well, a year ago yesterday. I didn’t sleep as much the last bout of this bullshit, or maybe I slept through part of it. Instead, I laid on the couch for 7 hours, complaining to Pippin that Chaucer wouldn’t get off me, and complaining to Chaucer that Pippin wouldn’t stop jumping onto shit she shouldn’t.
Needless to say, there’s been no fun whatsoever.
He came home a little while ago with some ginger ale and Gatorade. We just need to figure out dinner.
