I'm so sick.
I think I've contracted my mom's sinus infection and the Other Progeny's ear infection. Everything on my body hurts except my stomach. My nose is running like an Olympic sprinter. My throat feels like someone force-fed me sandpaper. My head weighs about eighty pounds, and each of my legs is filled with solid, frozen-cold cement. The small of my back feels as if someone has fastened two grappling hooks to my muscles and now they're turning them until there is nothing but a single enormous knot there.
I hate being sick. I hate being sick and knowing there is no hope of having a visitor, because they're all busy.
My scrapbook pages keep telling me they want to be friends, but I ignore them. Someone could die from all the perky fun that comes with having friends like that.