Can't blog. Busy clinging to bed for dear life, pleading with room to stop spinning and for bathroom to stop being so goddamn far away. And to also stop spinning.
I spent most of the morning in Am I Sick? I Think I Might Be Getting Sick. limbo, not sure if I was just extra kinda tired, or queasy from too much coffee and not enough bagels, and then. Okay. Yes. Sick. Glad we cleared that up. Everything is nice and definitively terrible now.
I'm not sure which child brought home the pestilence -- my money's on Noah, who said he felt like he needed to throw up on Sunday but did not actually throw up, because that's how it works. Their mild discomfort is your wishing for death. They sneeze once, your sinuses set themselves on fire and explode out your head holes.
Wait. Why am I still talking? Why am I even trying to type right now? Everything on the screen looks like a spiraly black-and-white soup right now anyway, probably full of typos and delirious nonsense about karate kaftan tampon popsicle. Harpsichord! Whatever, ceiling fan ocean farquat tomorrow, zzibbt.