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I'm sick, so I whine
Nov. 13th, 2006 04:07 amAfter three days, there seems to be NyQuil and Dayquil running through my veins instead of blood. Mebbe there's a reason these are on the "must be of smoking age to buy!" list after all... Well, the Dayquil is, anyway. Alas, with all these tasty drugs floating around in my system, I could not fall asleep. Some of this probably had something to do with me accepting a call this morning about the time I was heading off to bed. However, I still should have been able to pass out easily.
Nope. Went to the store with Dad. Who went in the store. Gasp! We bought stuff. It was grand. [Cheeeeeeeesesticks!] Came home. Put stuff away. Admired the work I'd done earlier in the bathroom. As in I cleaned it. Sort of. It still needs some work, but I found my box cutter [not the big scary one, but the cute one] and I killed the boxes I've been accumulating for the better part of a year. Funny how that, more than anything, cleared the room out immediately. I still have two more to go, but I need another trash bag and... I was tired.
I attempt to sleep. It's hot, despite the fact that I turned the heat off before our shopping expedition. I toss. I turn. I find Kleenex. I'm several kinds of miserable, though I must have managed to drift off because the next thing I know, I hear someone calling my name.
I should mention that I frequently hear people calling my name and no one is. It is, alas, my level of crazy. Or I live with sadists who believe in testing my sanity. I don't know. Anyway, it's dark, I'm freakishly hot, and christonacracker, my throat is now scratchy. New symptom! Uncool, as previously it seemed the cold was going away.
I stumble to the stairs, marveling at how dark it is upstairs with no lights on. I'm certain it must be relatively late evening. I call out, which is more a croak than anything, and find out that Dad wants me to make dinner.
Nyargh! I feel like crap! Dinner is spaghetti. Any idiot can make spaghetti the way I do. ANYONE. Even the spaz nephew love could do this... in a couple of years. Still, I feel kind of bad for Dad... so I trudge downstairs. Meh. And thus I begin making dinner only to realize it's 5:30 in the afternoon. Nyarrrrrrgh.
Luckily Dad realized someone would have to do the dishes, and I wasn't about to do them. I did, however, clue everyone in to the plastic forks/knives hidden in the cabinet above the defunct dishwasher. While dinner was nummy, I'd probably averaged about 45 minutes of sleep in the last... 20 hours or so.
I trudged up stairs, decided to sleep closer to the fan, and managed to pass out. Only to wake up to the sensation that I'd somehow managed to swallow a gallon of kitty litter. Dry. Throat. Itchy. Aaaaaaugh. This happened repeatedly.
So now I'm sitting here, bundled up in my nephew's blanket [note to self: wash it], sucking down pulp free OJ without a straw.
*resumes reading From Black Rooms*
Nope. Went to the store with Dad. Who went in the store. Gasp! We bought stuff. It was grand. [Cheeeeeeeesesticks!] Came home. Put stuff away. Admired the work I'd done earlier in the bathroom. As in I cleaned it. Sort of. It still needs some work, but I found my box cutter [not the big scary one, but the cute one] and I killed the boxes I've been accumulating for the better part of a year. Funny how that, more than anything, cleared the room out immediately. I still have two more to go, but I need another trash bag and... I was tired.
I attempt to sleep. It's hot, despite the fact that I turned the heat off before our shopping expedition. I toss. I turn. I find Kleenex. I'm several kinds of miserable, though I must have managed to drift off because the next thing I know, I hear someone calling my name.
I should mention that I frequently hear people calling my name and no one is. It is, alas, my level of crazy. Or I live with sadists who believe in testing my sanity. I don't know. Anyway, it's dark, I'm freakishly hot, and christonacracker, my throat is now scratchy. New symptom! Uncool, as previously it seemed the cold was going away.
I stumble to the stairs, marveling at how dark it is upstairs with no lights on. I'm certain it must be relatively late evening. I call out, which is more a croak than anything, and find out that Dad wants me to make dinner.
Nyargh! I feel like crap! Dinner is spaghetti. Any idiot can make spaghetti the way I do. ANYONE. Even the spaz nephew love could do this... in a couple of years. Still, I feel kind of bad for Dad... so I trudge downstairs. Meh. And thus I begin making dinner only to realize it's 5:30 in the afternoon. Nyarrrrrrgh.
Luckily Dad realized someone would have to do the dishes, and I wasn't about to do them. I did, however, clue everyone in to the plastic forks/knives hidden in the cabinet above the defunct dishwasher. While dinner was nummy, I'd probably averaged about 45 minutes of sleep in the last... 20 hours or so.
I trudged up stairs, decided to sleep closer to the fan, and managed to pass out. Only to wake up to the sensation that I'd somehow managed to swallow a gallon of kitty litter. Dry. Throat. Itchy. Aaaaaaugh. This happened repeatedly.
So now I'm sitting here, bundled up in my nephew's blanket [note to self: wash it], sucking down pulp free OJ without a straw.
*resumes reading From Black Rooms*
