Apparently I am sick.
I have been fighting it for days, because that's what I do. I tell my body to suck it up and ignore the impending doom set to crush me like an anvil to the head.
Yesterday my body ached and my throat was that rare mix of scratchy and fire-ridden. I applied enough Vitamin C to kill a small horse.
I woke up in the middle of the night soaked in sweat. Drenched. Lovely, right?
So this morning it was no surprise that I felt like a truck had run me over. The promptly backed over me..then run me over again.
My entire body hurts- from my hair to my toe joints.
My throat is no longer scratchy, but my stomach has joined the cause and is rioting to rival the wall street protesters.
It is preeeeetyyyyy. Lemme tell you.
So, I do what most moms do. I spent the morning getting on with it until I collapsed in a heap around noon. I asked Mark for help- something I rarely do in the middle of a workday.
I then took to my bed and tried to read but the words make me feel all gnarly and swimmy and the world spins when I look around too much.
So mostly it's me and my computer, cuddled up like a honeymoon couple.
If a honeymoon included digestion noises never heard of before and lots of moaning. Well, pain induced moaning.
Errrmmmm. Moving on.
Anywho, why am I telling you this? Because I can. And because according to WebMD I am close to death.
So my last wishes:
Make sure Lily gets my jewelry. Not now, but when she is, like, 20. As long as she is a amature 20 and won't hock it to buy a tattoo or run away with a dude named Biff.
She can have it when she's 30.
Make sure Sam doesn't join the cast of Jackass too soon into his sure to be illustrious daredevil career.
Make sure mark remarries. In like 10 years. And make sure she is hideous but good with the children. And that she can take care of wood floors...because God knows I can't.
I am requesting "Dancing Queen" be played 5 times at my funeral. At 70 decibels. And make sure the speaker is right next to Mark.
My sewing machine should go to somebody who loves to sew. Wait... It should go to somebody who loves me and will include it in a wall sized shrine to me. Complete with airbrushed pictures of me looking daunting and skinny.
Every year on my birthday, you should drink a head sized pumpkin milkshake in my memory.
Tell the girl at the gym that we all know she's cute. She doesn't have to wear cut off t-shirts and "Juicy" shorts to prove it. One day she is going to give one of the older men a coronary.
Tell Santa I suspect he isn't real.
And now, on with the sickness and groaning and gnashing of teeth.
Goodbye, cruel world.
Or, see ya tomorrow. Ya know, whatevs.
