The presidential campaign season has broken me.
February 7, 2011
Truth be told, this shot was an accident when I was setting my phone down. I liked it and it was representative of my day, so I kept it. By the time I’d made a huge dent in some long-neglected email, I was too tired to write the blog post I’d intended to write.
I’ve learned to compensate for a certain degree of chronic illness in my daily life, but fortunately I rarely catch colds and things of that rather pedestrian ilk. When I do catch something that’s going around I’m a terrible sick person, especially if it escalates rapidly into something like pneumonia that really wrings me out.
I’m on a shitload of drugs and they’re working. I think. As much as I can think. See also: shitload of drugs.
Unfortunately, the only thing I feel like eating are ricola coughdrops and fresca.
Basically, Husband is living with a fever-addled meth-head with a nasty cough and the attention span of a very sharp cheese.
I’m too feverish to be bored, thankfully, so I just sleep most of the time. I’ve coughed so much I can barely talk, which cuts down on the amount of conversation I normally have with myself during the day. I wonder if the me that listens to me talk all day is also sick, or if that me is lonely and bored without this me to babble to me all day?
This is where you all pause and have a moment of sympathy for Husband.
I was just emailing Beth, who was helping me out with something, and I happened to glance over what I’d written her and realized that I should not be communicating with the outside world right now.
So what did I do after deciding I’m not lucid enough to communicate with the outside world? I promptly started blogging about how I shouldn’t be communicating with the outside world. I think I had some funny things to say at my own expense, but I’ve already forgotten them. How sad – I’m only able to stay awake about 3 hours a day so I’ve already lost the momentum to mock myself. Luckily, I can crib from the aforementioned email to Beth.
This week I’ve been on netflix streaming all 31 episodes of Terminator: the Sarah Connor chronicles with my trusty Tivo, Overlord II. This is a bad idea. Now when I do get out of bed I walk around the house saying “I’m from the future. Come with me if you want to live,” to any foods I’m about to consume. I find it hysterically funny, Husband just looks afraid.
Interestingly, iphone insists on auto-correcting “netflix streaming” to “nervous streaming” – it’s never done that before, which makes me wonder if it’s intuitively reacting to the previous comment about meth. On the one hand, that’s interesting. On the other hand, that kind of native intelligence in a device makes me paranoid about Skynet, which may or may not be related to all those drugs I mentioned earlier. Or maybe that’s what Skynet wants you to think.
It’s definitely naptime. Perhaps later we’ll tackle the phenomenon whereby I email someone that my throat hurts too much to talk and I just need to sleep and they promptly call me and wake me up and then try to talk to me. Maybe future me can send a robot back from the future to explain to them – and by “them” I mean “my mom” – why this is annoying.
It’s all gonna go to hell at over at Focus on the Family. They’ve changed their dress code and that’s gonna lead to nothing but trouble:
Beginning today, men who work at Focus no longer have to wear mandatory business attire, including tie, and women employees don’t have to stick with just dresses or skirts and hosiery. Men can now come to work donning an open collar shirt – but no spandex – and women can arrive decked in dress pants and pantsuits.
In a related note, when I tried to tag this post “pants,” wordpress suggested I used the tag “squirrel underpants” instead. That says something about my blogging habits that I don’t wish to contemplate on a Friday evening.