It’s been 15 days since I’ve been outside and I’ve been ill for 13 of them. In that times I think I’ve regressed, reading Stephen King and listening to music in bed, and deciding that I might just like It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. By osmosis. Sarge is sick now, too, see. We are sharing the TV. And the cough syrup.
It’s my fault that he’s sick. Because when I’m sick, I get extra mushy. I want to hug the shit out of everyone. More than usual. And these days, Sarge is the only one around. Not complaining. Not really.
Take last week, for example.
He may have coughed and blew his nose, showing it to me like a prize. ‘Maybe it’s the flu,’ he said.
I looked at him over my glasses, crooked on my face. Because I can, and they were. ‘Say what?’ I said.
‘Maybe it’s the flu.’
‘I’ve been sick for a week, and you’ve said it’s not the flu. Because I’d know if it was. Of course. You’re sick for 5 minutes and it’s the flu? Gimme the tissues, you damn fool.’
And I blew my nose. ‘So. Now it’s the flu?’
I shrugged. ‘OK. Can I hava hug?’
And so, on we go. Amidst the pills and the eucalyptus and the lozenges, I’m restless. I am sick of being sick. I have always been an impatient patient. I don’t know which book to read. Or which one to write. Nothing is enough. I’ve stuffed another notebook. I’ve run out of ink. This is what cabin fever feels like.
Cabin fever comes with weird dreams and Danish crime drama.
So, what’s been going on in your world?