I love it when I come down with The Death.

I’ve been sick most of the week. And not the usual mental health sick, either; no, I’ve been feebly wishing I would be mauled by a bus to end my suffering, sick. It started with a sore throat on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, I couldn’t move, I had no voice, I couldn’t breathe, and the vertigo was so bad, getting out of bed was an insurmountable challenge. I called in (or rather, emailed, what with the not having a voice part.) I figured it couldn’t possibly get worse by Thursday.

It did.

Yay fever!

By Friday I’d sufficiently used up most of the rest of my yearly sleep allotment, so I hauled my pathetic sick butt to work. It’s amazing how when you’re physically sick, you can go “Yay I feel better, let’s do this work thing! :D!” and then want to die again by lunch. Ugh. I made it through the day, and then on the way home, I had to stop for gas, at which time my car decided to die. I suppose it didn’t want to feel left out of the terrible case of The Death I was passing around.

Turns out I need a new battery, and I’ve got a portable jumpstarter in the car until my service appointment on Tuesday at my dealership. I might as well get the oil changed a bit early, for a change. Though I poured a quart of oil in, as well as some coolant, out of fear that it was something along those lines. The battery is literally the only other car ailment I can diagnose with my lack of knowledge that I haven’t recently done anything about. (The serpentine belt got replaced a few services ago, and I just put new tires on this past service.) I will have had the car four years next month, and it’s almost to 75,000 miles, so we’re doing pretty good, I must say. I still won’t manage to pay it off for another three years or so, of course. Ah, well.

Then I got home, and was accosted by the dog I am mad at right now. On Tuesday, when I already didn’t feel good and just wanted to go to bed when I got home, I discovered part of the lining of a suede glove that Handsome had evidently decided looked particularly delicious. I’d had my garb bin down from the closet and didn’t think anything of it, as he’s never bothered any of my faire leather garb, but evidently suede is a completely different story. I searched, and couldn’t find the remains of that glove, or its counterpart at all. His distended belly made him look nearly pregnant, so I had good reason to believe he’d eaten both of them. Our neighbor, the vet, told me to feed him a cup of mineral oil (or baby oil, or vaseline) to help him pass it, rather than a $1500 surgery to remove said gloves. Oh, and he’ll need to be diapered, because everything will pass, and in a big, slimy hurry.

I got to feed a dog a cup of mineral oil, 6 mLs at a time, as that was the only syringe she had at home, because he’d eaten my faire gloves. Everything was very, very slippery by the time we were done. When my roommate came home, she located half of a glove and the other one intact, that he’d buried in the guest bed and under pillows in my room, but he definitely ate the better half of one of them, lining and all, and it had laces and grommets on that part. Because of course he did.

And then, on Wednesday, when I was lying around wishing I was dead, because surely death didn’t hurt as badly, I found out from my boyfriend’s sister on Facebook that oh, he’s divorced.


This week has been too dramatic for my feeble mind to handle. I’ve decided to resign from the human race until my higher brain functions work again, and even then, I’m still not guaranteeing I’ll want to take the job back.

And now, I’ve had too much caffeine and am sitting here, writing a post before I trudge back to bed and try to go back to sleep despite not having the ability to breathe like a normal person… I’m getting hit with anxiety, and guilt. I love how regular mistakes are magnified in my head, going from “Whoops, better not do that again” to outright war crimes in the courtroom of my mind. I was mean to people as a child! I was a horrible, awful person! I made such terrible, awful, horrific mistakes I need to self-flagellate myself for it, every night, for the rest of my life!

Never mind that sometimes it’s really, really stupid stuff, because I was a really, really stupid kid. I’d want to make something for a friend and not finish it, because I am a perfectionist and couldn’t get it just right, and feel awful for it for years. Or in one particularly funny incident, I’d borrowed a pencil sharpener from a classmate, and it was in my desk when we abruptly moved mid-year to another school district, so my mom threw it in with my other things when she emptied my desk. I wasn’t even there, and had no means to return it, seems how it was second grade, but I still feel bad every now and then, over a two dollar pencil sharpener with Hello Kitty or something on it.

This stuff makes no sense.


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