The world gets increasingly smaller when you’re sick, empty tissue boxes stack up like an impenetrable cliff, mucus impregnated tissues build up against them like blizzard blown snow.
The tissues wait, menacing, threatening, to collapse and wash me away in a slime filled snotalanche.
And so begins day six of my self imposed exile, boredom and tedium has well set in, drizzling rain stopping even the minor pleasure of walking into the sunlight, blinking tentatively like a new born bunny on it’s first venture from the burrow, warming in the rays of the sun ready to scurry back inside to the comfort and safety of a full tissue box.
I could clean the house, but then what would I do tomorrow when I get really bored?
And I’m out of tissues, so it’s the rough touch of toilet paper to soak the snot, and when my head gets really bad it’s under the hot shower for a steam and desnotification, echoing the words of Lady MacBeth, “Out damned snot”.
So the day drags on, 10:16 and apart from some washing up nothing done, nothing accomplished, the 8th deadly sin of wasting time has been committed.
Tomorrow, I hope I’ll be somewhat better tomorrow, I know I’ve been saying that for days but if I’m no longer a belching spluttering oil well of phlegm I might be able to do something, like buy some fresh food or even pick up some steel for a project (I made the mistake of doing the design for it on Monday so now there’s nothing left to do but build it with materials I don’t have).
I hate being sick.