Gah…how long has it been? By my calculations, forever and a day sound about right?
Around two weeks ago I hit a wall tagged Bronx graffitti style by the badass crew of the flu. My younger son, code name Sunshine, is highly allergic to eggs, so he can’t get a flu shot. In a show of stupid solidarity I refuse to get one too so he’s not alone and we can be miserable together. It worked. We spent a whole Friday watching Season One and Two of The Walking Dead on Netflix while fighting over the last box of tissues. But then that bitch Murphy made me her bitch again. I started getting better by the end of the next week, but it turned out I was just getting punk’d. It wasn’t getting better. It was getting worse. The waning fever. The coughing up a lung. Just when it was time for our clocks to spring forward, my ass sprung back to the 1940’s.
Because I have Whooping Cough.
How lame. I’d much rather fancy myself as wielding a wicked case of whoop ass. But then I also like to fancy that the moment Skarsy and I lock eyes for the first time, cartoon hearts will appear in his and he’ll insist we run away to fuck happily ever after.
Speaking of which:
According to the gossip, he was out house hunting. If I’m truly on my death bed, then he needs to pick a place to hang his hat.
I also like to fancy that I know what was going on in this picture.
What can I say? It’s not just the flu that makes me feverish.