mercy

The world ends not with a bang, but with bronchitis. I suppose it was inevitable that my heart and mind and even my ulcer-producing stomach would be eager to carry on with my war-on-all-fronts mentality, but that my lungs would reveal themselves to be, as they always have been, weak little traitors. Stupid lungs.

Needless to say, I did not go to work today. While my congestion is getting better (I think I only used half a box of kleenexes today, rather than a box and a half), my breath is getting more ragged, and despite sleeping for eleven hours last night I was too exhausted to contemplate dragging myself into the office, and too mentally deficient to do anything when I got there. So, I showered (a chore), ate some oatmeal (unappealing), and went to the doctor (even more unappealing), where they shoved a probe into my nasal cavity (HORROR) to determine whether I had the flu. I do not have the flu, but I do have nightmare-inducing memories of a nurse trying to pull my brain out of my skull with a sharpened stick. Instead, they determined that I have bronchitis, and they gave me a prescription for an inhaler and some drugged-up cough syrup, with instructions to come back if my fever spikes or I have any other signs of pneumonia. YAY.

I spent the rest of the afternoon being v. lazy; I dropped the prescriptions off, ate fries and a milkshake in an attempt to restore myself (mildly successful), and took a three-hour nap. Then I picked up my prescriptions, sent a few work emails, and spent the rest of the night reading a book and trying to not fall asleep and not check for new reviews of my book (a failing task, I'll grant you). And now, I should sleep, and then figure out a gameplan for the next 2-5 years that does not involve me collapsing of exhaustion every three months. Heh. Goodnight!