I really don’t do sick well. When I was a kid I would take my blanket and pillow and lie on the floor between my family and the tv and moan. Yeah, a little melodramatic. But it stinks when you’re just sick enough that you can’t do anything but not sick enough to do nothing but sleep. Illness is boring.

I’ve grown up a little bit. I tend to keep to myself when I’m sick now. Just me, my box of tissues, and my trash bin. I drink a lot, eat salty stuff, and mourn the loss of my sense of taste. Today I’m switching between Downton Abbey Season 6 and Supernatural Season 7 episodes. I huddle under my blue-plaid blanket on my recliner and wonder if it’s too early to go to bed. I sit here thinking about how I’ll feel tomorrow and how I can’t really miss work, but don’t want to share my ick with the people there.

All in all, a waste of a day off. Come on, immune system, kick some virus butt.

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