Blech

I'm home sick with the flu. Everything hurts. I can't get comfortable anywhere--on the couch, in bed, on the floor. Scully is no help. Animals are supposed to be empathic and supportive when their people get sick, but Scully is perfectly happy to nap on the other side of the apartment from me. Forget the fact that I provide her with food and love--she can't be bothered with my squirming around.

Because I'm never home very much, I have no sick food in the house. There's a random box of crackers and some strawberry jam for toast but otherwise I'm relying on my roommate's stash of chamomile tea. Oh, the packaged soup, soda, and saltines--they are so close and yet so far away. Brooks is around the corner but I can't seem to get further than the hallway before I need to sit down again. Everyone has their own sick food. My old roommate liked plain white rice when she was ill. An old boyfriend needed ginger ale and alphabet soup. I like chicken-flavored ramen and saltines with strawberry jam on them. It sounds gross but it works for me.

My mother would sigh and tell me to buck up and go to the store. If only I could let myself be a baby about being sick, but I always just feel badly for being a wuss. Unlike every man I've ever known--what is it about men and their ability to turn into complete drama queens when they're sick. It's like no one in the world has ever had a cold before. Instead, I'm perched uncomfortably on the couch and watching bad daytime TV. When exactly did it get to be this bad?? Somehow I found a Star Trek: TNG marathon on Spike, but while I was flipping channels, I passed a Who's The Boss reunion, some bad reality crap and about 17 different soap operas. When I was 11, I got into a couple of soaps and the scary thing is that Days of Our Lives STILL STARS the people who were on in 1986, and they don't look any older. Ah, the wonders of Botox and liposuction.

OK, I need more Tylenol.