I'm sick. My insides are hotter than Hades. My breath is scorching my throat. I want to sleep and sleep and sleep some more -- except that I can't. Not at night, anyway. I start to feel capable of resting about twenty minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Father Time is in cahoots with the virus, I suspect.
It's not surprising that I've fallen ill. Life is hard right now. Really, really hard. It feels like everyone is afraid. Afraid to move forward, afraid to stay still... We're all yella. I've been steadily waltzed into a corner and with my back up against the wall, it appears my immune system is the first part of me to cry 'uncle'. "Uncle, uncle, uncle!" I'm tired. I can't paint any more pretty pictures.
Thanksgiving will likely be a bust this year. I've chosen self-exile, though it hardly feels like it was much of a choice.
If you have nothing nice to say...