Sustenance, rack time 🤒

I’m wearing pink-and-purple leopard-printed house slippers on both feet, the left of which is cloaked in one of my green-toed/green-heeled retro mismatch socks because I applied Vick’s Vapor Rub to the same sole to aid in my breathing from three past midnight and until I awoke, at the time of writing this.

My nose red from so much blowing, my eyes watery from sinus shit, my throat dry and scratchy from coughing and mucus—I know the shitstorm has to take its toll before I begin the road to recovery and feel so wonderful once this cold is a blurry several miles away in my rear-view mirror. But what I look forward doesn’t soften the blow; if anything, I’m blowing more than I thought my body was capable of. 🤧

I stand in the kitchen, starved by my meds and the lack of sustenance lately, and decide upon on a white potato: the one food humanity could survive on alone if push came to shove. (Sure, we’d have to eat a lot of potatoes a day, but we could do it.)

I’ve already made the commitment to remaining under the influence of this medication at night, plus once during the day, until I am better—gotta be careful not to accidentally overdose, as I almost did at first. My hair is in a lazy, low bun, in quintessential Jane fashion, from the rack time gathered prior. All I’m missing from my well-being is an off-the-shoulder top in dark grey that says, “I WOKE UP LIKE THIS,” in white in Unicorn Flakes.

I’ve run into more walls than usual these last few days, and I’ve come to consider the facts: this is how a cat feels after consuming hangover-level catnip and waking up on the wrong side of the bed. My nose is stopped up, runny when it’s clear—so much so that it might run away from me if I don’t catch it. I’ve occupied myself by playing Village Life on Facebook and reading a book; and at some point, there was an email exchange during which I realized all the fucks I gave.

Animated image: Kim Possible (Disney cartoon character from show of same name) holding a phone in her right hand and sitting on her bed; a humidifier is blowing steam as she says to Ron, "I can't breathe through my nose."This is it, the non-filtering of me, myself and I, and I have survived and do not feel guilty for failing to sugarcoat the fact that I have used two boxes of tissue, my snot is an unnerving shade of yellow, and my biggest dilemma at the present is whether I want to breathe or drink or eat more ’cause there’s only one way to do all three (and obviously they cannot be performed at once, though I may’ve found a grotesque workaround for the latter two, from which I’ll spare you).

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