Bragging about how healthy I am and how I rarely get sick has obviously come back to bite me in my easter-creamy-egg-dimpled ass.
Now, if you know me, you’re expecting me to blame someone. And trust me I’m tempted. I want to blame the snotty, disgusting, little school children who hork loogies into mid air when they sneeze or the yucky skating rink full of creepy, raging, viral, plague germs. But I’m above that, oh yes I am.
I recognize that it’s my fault that I haven’t washed my floors in a decade, or spent more than one night a week at home relaxing in two whole months. The fact that I have been existing on a diet of quarter pounders and easter cream eggs may also have something to do with it. Who knows.
I have lost my sense of smell so it’s okay that I no longer shower and the greasy hairdo I’ve acquired works wonders when you want it to stand straight up off your sweaty back.
I’ve learned to communicate with Barry using grunts and groans when I need soup, back rubs, or consolation ice cream.
I’ve now missed three days of school and am only today starting to feel a mere bit better.
My skin hurts. My hair hurts. I LOVE to whine.
Yes, I am the idiot-tard who brought this superflu on herself. But please, I still want yer pity.
