To my right is a bottle of water and box of tissues. To my left is a bowl of beef stew that I can barely taste. In front of me is my computer . I have my current work in progress open and the cursor is linking at me as a reminder that I am supposed to be writing. The words are slowly struggling to get out of the dense fog that has drifted in and settled around my mind.
Who and what is to blame for this? The answer is plain as day, and one look around my house would show you the answer.
First my husband brought this crappy cold home. Luckily I didn't catch it completely just a stuffy head. So I blithely went on about my life thinking I was in the clear. WRONG!
Why? Because my youngest (who will be 21 soon, yes I'm that old, and today I feel it!) came down with it only a few days later. Now my middle son got it even worse (he's about to be 25, but with this bug he's acting more like 15). If dealing with 2 sick men wasn't bad enough between the two of them they managed to make sure I got the damn thing. So hoping my oldest doesn't catch it. She's not a pretty sickie!
The youngest is starting to feel a bit better, the middle is managing with theraflu. As for me the dishes are done, I could really care less if the laundry gets done today, I'm eating, and trying to write.
I should probably give up and go to bed. I'll most likely just purge anything I do get written today. Then again who knows it may be some fabulous stuff that oozes out of the haze.
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