Last week it was, yes, laziness that kept me from posting anything. But this weekend, it was illness. I haven’t had a stomach bug since I was a kid, and this just flattened me. Feeling nauseated for forty-eight hours straight is not something I want to repeat in the near future (chalk that up as another reason to never get knocked up). Also, for some reason, I was sure bile was black. Guess the only medieval humor that stuck in my head was the black bile one. I laid in bed, trying to remember what the other three were (I got as far as blood) and calculating how long it would take for someone to discover my dessicated corpse. Illness, you may have noticed, makes me morbid.
It was at this time that I began to passionately regret not being a reliably prompt correspondent, whether it be on Facebook, email, or text messaging. Someone would notice faster that I wasn’t answering if I had a usual response time. I mean, I was probably still going to be dead when someone ended up breaking my door down, but my corpse would be better-looking. These things are important when you’re cradling a bucket and trying to muster up the strength to traverse the eight metres to the bathroom, where you have inconveniently chosen to store your Advil.
I was, however, pretty glad that I’d never given into spinster cliche and acquired a cat. I just know one of those furry bastards would go for my corpse-face first.
