This is me. This is me three days into what I can only assume is some manifestation of something tragically deadly and suitably Victorian (but not disfiguring). I feel like crapola.
I'm being a trooper though; going to work and being only slightly more dysfunctional than normal, coming home and cooking supper... You know. Usual Mom stuff. By the time we've eaten and I've used the last bit of stored energy to meekly insist The Trolls do their chores, I'm wiped out. So, of course, that's when The Trolls and The Boyfriend™ decide it's time to be assholes. And of course the brunt of it is at me. And of course none of them factor in that I'M DYING and just want to go to sleep now pleaseandthankyou. Oh and please excuse the hacking cough that can only mean I have whooping cough or tuberculosis or something equally wretched. I hope it didn't keep you up all night, too.
Being the only chick in a house full of dudes sucks anyway. Being the only chick in a house full of dudes when you're SICK is clearly karmic retribution for a grievous sin. Like murder level sin. As in Satan himself isn't this cruel.
I'm off to go make myself some tea and rub vicks on my chest. If I'm quieter than usual... Well, it's because I'm DYING.