As you may or may not recall, just the other day I was bragging how I never get sick and how my white blood cells kick ass, right? Well, guess who felt like this all weekend?
I don't know what happened. Friday I went to a press day (the results of which will be revealed later on this week!) and I was feeling both hunky and dory. Then Friday night I was feeling neither, then late Friday night I was feeling really bad, then I spent two days mostly sleeping- waking up only to catch 5 minutes of Lockdown (it is vital that I know what prison entails and how I should behave if I should ever fins myself...locked down) or to turn on my Xbox before passing out again before I could pick up the controller. It was essentially shuffle to the couch, sleep, shuffle to the bed, sleep, take my temperature (I became obsessed with taking my temperature almost instantly), sleep, etc etc. Very, very weird. I don't know what happened, although I have my suspicions:
- One of you is a mean Drag Me to Hell-type gypsy who, after reading my post full of boasting, gave a shout of "I'll show her!" and promptly put a pox on me
- The recent anonymous commenter on my pregnancy scares post, who suggested that anyone who thinks babies are weird parasites should probably terminate themselves, somehow influenced my body to rebel on me
- I shouldn't have eaten the proffered piece of cake my roommate made for her boyfriend's birthday, as the eggs she used expired over a month ago...although they both seem to be fine
- It's probably because of something else you did
I don't know if there's any point to my talking about all of this except to say that I have nothing to post today because I'm only just starting to feel human again, or at least as close to human as I ever feel.
My near-death experience of being sick this weekend (okay, maybe that's exaggerating) not only got me obsessed with taking my own temperature, but it also reminded me that yes, we're all going to die someday. Hopefully, that day will be far far FARRRRRRR off, and hopefully death will not come via being boiled alive amongst the hot dogs, as is the case with that poor fellow in My Bloody Valentine. Still, everyone has an expiration date. Thinking about this filled my head with thoughts of "Oh dear lord, who has to throw away my dirty underwear once I'm dead?", and it made me glad that I don't have a journal full of bad poetry tucked away somewhere, just waiting to be discovered after I'm gone. Hooray!