Blargh.

Ye gads, but I fuckin' hate being sick. I don't know what the hell I've got, but it's nasty. I've dropped five pounds in the last three days already just because eating's become so hard - my throat is a small planet at this point. Mercury, I think. And when I DO manage to get something down, it's immediately back out, one way or the other. Throw on top of that a return of the fever that originally heralded this little adventure, joints and muscles that ache and fever-tender skin and sore eyeballs...yeah. I'm not a happy camper.

And it's my mom's birthday. So I'm - apparently - supposed to help my dad clean the house. Nevermind that I already spent quite a bit of the week getting ready for the party they're throwing and helping clean the house (all that's left is vacuuming, which, last I check, was a one-person-job), nevermind that I worked last night, and unless I break down and call in sick I'll be working tonight, nevermind that I haven't slept because I CAN'T FUCKIN' BREATHE...

Nope. Nevermind all those things. Dad, He-Who-Is-Determined-To-Exert-His-Masculine-Authority-As-Master-Of-His-Domain, wants help.

Have I mentioned that when my testosterone levels are higher, I find myself less-and-less fond of the male part of our species? Estrogen goes up, men start looking pretty appealing. Estrogen goes down and androgens start dancing around in my veins...give me a 12-gauge pump action and I'm happy.