When I was a child I seem to recall fantasizing about being a sickly and consumptive young lordling in an ancient English manor house, gingerly coughing my short life away into silk handkerchiefs while lying abed in a great velvet-draped four-poster bed in a darkened room lined with old musty books. Don’t ask me why; one too many readings of The Secret Garden, perhaps.
Be careful what you wish for.
At 5AM I was hale and hearty and all set to workout. By 6:30 I was stumbling back to bed, too dizzy too stand.
I am officially sick of ear infections. I never had one in my life until a few months ago, and now I’ve had two. I miss being able to rely on my immune system.
Also, fuck the FDA, and fuck the doctors who’s monopoly they protect. It took having Stacey call the doctor’s office back in full bitch mode to get an appointment today, so that I could wait 45 minutes so that a doctor could inspect me for five seconds and tell me what I already knew. I would be healthier now if Stacey could have just picked me up some antibiotics this morning, no questions asked, and if I could have spent the time wasted at the doctor’s office sleeping.
Also, special bonus announcement for anyone who read this far: I no longer have long hair.