In case you’ve been wondering if I was abducted by aliens or kidnapped by the Sinaloa Cartel, it’s neither. I’m just under the weather.
This has been a shitty week. Monday, I woke up in the night with an earache and it’s been downhill ever since. Fever, cough, sore throat, stiff neck, aching muscles. By Thursday, I had transformed into the biggest baby on the planet, woe-is-me-ing my way through the day.
I hate being under the weather. Especially since I live alone and have nobody to whine to — and whining to the cat is wholly unsatisfactory.
My dad left me a couple of COVID tests in my mailbox yesterday evening on the outside chance it was the WuFlu.
Now that I have taken a home COVID test, I can tell you all those years of being told not to stick things up my nose seem rather short-sighted.
It was negative by the way. Though I think I may not have kept the Q-tip thingy in my nose as long as I should have. You’re supposed to swirl it around up there for like 15 seconds per nostril. I’m fairly certain I bailed too soon, but I can’t say for sure since I didn’t time it.
Personally, I would prefer it was COVID. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry that I have something normal people take antibiotics to get rid of. Unless I have a secret desire to cut off the flow of oxygen to my brain, antibiotics aren’t an option for me.
Fortunately, the fever has not gotten over 101 degrees all week. But even hovering in the 100-degree range for five days straight takes its toll.
By way of comfort food, I ordered several entrees from my local Indian restaurant to tide me over. India-Indian, not Elizabeth Warren-Indian. You’d think spicy food would be a bad idea when your throat is sore. But I find the burn oddly soothing.
Pray this burns out of me on its own. Because if I need antibiotics to clear this up, I’ll be even further under the weather than I already am. Six feet under.
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