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Should we take bets on whether or not I get this done and post it online? It’s anyone’s guess, and the odds are evenly split. I don’t even know what I’m going to say or why I’m saying anything at all. Write an entire post with words that make sense? 

Place your bets. Place your bets here. Will she do it? Can she do it? We’ve got ourselves a real nail-biter, folks.

I’m losing it. It’s okay, you can say it. I won’t be offended. It’s actually true. Crazy slowly am I going. What?

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I’ve been sick for a few weeks, and it’s starting to wear me down. There’s been some proverbial wall climbing because I don’t have the energy to give it a real go. I have muttered words that aren’t suitable for younger audiences. Every morning I wake up hoping I’ll feel better, but it’s the same as it was.

For fucks sake, seriously! Oo, one of those naughty words slipped past the filter. Hopefully, no one here is the delicate sort. If you are? Just close your eyes and hum your favourite tune. I can’t guarantee that this will be the only time I say something inappropriate.

I’m grumpy and sick. Is it Obvious?

I should say that it’s nothing serious or life-threatening. At least, I’m assuming it’s not because it’s not getting worse. It’s not getting better, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s just there, and I’m annoyed, bothered, pissed off, and fed up. 

I have a lung infection, but it’s not THEE lung infection. You know, the one that’s dominated the news for the last two years? Yeah, it’s not that one. I’ve done multiple tests, and they’ve all been negative. Turns out that there are a lot of infectious diseases floating around, and they all suck.

Who knew? *Copious amounts of sarcasm*

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It would seem that I have something that’s oscillating between bronchitis and pneumonia. Possibly a combination of the two? I don’t know. I’m too tired to listen to the people saying things. It’s an infection, and it has to run its course. As long as it doesn’t get worse, all I can do right now is rest and wait for it to fuck right off.

See, I warned you, there’s going to be a bit of slippage.

Filter my words? Nah, words are hard. Thoughts are harder. Staring out into space and completely forgetting what I’m doing…Sigh, sorry, what was I going on about?

If you placed a bet on whether this will get done? It’s not too late to change it.

I’ve rested, drank plenty of fluids, and watched too many dashcam videos on Youtube. How can so many people suck at driving? It’s terrifying and infuriating. What is wrong with people? How did they get their license? My anger is rising. I should find something else to watch. Oo, a show on the cold war and Russian spies in the United States. That should be light and breezy.

Nope, not light or breezy. More murderee than I anticipated. Oh well, back to videos of car crashes.

That’s been the routine for the last couple of weeks. I’ve tried to put words on pages several times, but I give up soon after. My body is moving slowly, and my brain is just as sluggish. I’m losing my train of thought as we speak. Hell, the train has already derailed.

Sigh, now we’re back to grumpy. 

My mind is my own. To a certain extent— aside from mental illness— my mental health is something I can shape, control, and choose to heal. This is my mind and my body. 

I don’t like this foggy, sluggish feeling. It’s irritating that one nerve that’s already too raw. Doing nothing for days and days? Watching stupid videos and getting irrationally angry at strangers on the internet? Resting because it’s good for me or some annoying crap like that?

Nope, uh uh, that’s a big no for me.

At first, I would say that it wasn’t too bad. Who doesn’t want to sleep in untill their bladder triggers weird dreams? River rafting down the Sahara sounds like fun. Sure, it’s a desert, but that’s how these things go when your internal water balloon is about to burst. Things get peculiar, and there’s no other choice. Up and at am. Is that really the time?

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Turning off the alarm before going to bed is a special thing. It feels kind of naughty. Rules? What rules? Bwahaha. I’m sick, I don’t have to adult, and you can’t make me. Silence, you little menace. Your services are no longer required. Oo, who’s a rebel now, eh?

Talk about rebellious, stay in your pyjamas twenty-four/seven? This is the life! Order in because you’re too sick to cook? Oh, what a glorious feeling. Spend all day watching stupid shows? This might be heaven.

If I could dance, I would. Let me close my eyes, and…yes, there I am, as graceful as a toy ballerina. Only in my dreams because I’m one of the clumsiest people you’ll ever meet. I should tell you about the time I got my ankle wedged in my bicycle’s frame. 

They had to cut the frame to free me. The doctors in the emergency room didn’t believe my story. If we didn’t have the remains of the bike, they might’ve made an awkward phone call.

Needless to say, graceful is never going to be one of my descriptors.

For the first few days of being sick, it’s sunshine and rainbows. Except, of course, for the raging infection and the occasional sensation of death stalking the shadows. Is this the end? Grim Reaper, is that you? No, it’s my dog chasing his toy.

 I think I need to drink some water and quit the dramatics.

Besides the illness, sick days are a tad bit enjoyable and playing hooky from life reminds me of the times I got out of school. Usually, I was really sick or I employed the classic lightbulb thermometer trick. Did it matter? No school today, yippee!

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It’s the same feeling when you call in sick as an adult. Sorry, I can’t be a person right now. Please try again later. As we flop on the sofa and turn on our favourite streaming service, there’s a chuckle of satisfaction amongst the coughing. No adulting today, yippee!

How long does the giddiness last for you? Me? It depends on the level of sick, I suppose. In this case, I had about five days of tempered giddiness, and then the rumbling began. Next comes the restlessness that spurs a flurry of ill-advised activity. The urge—nay, need— to be productive overpowers any sense I possess. I must do something worthwhile even though there’s been a hostile takeover of my body.

My system is fighting a valiant battle against this invading force. It needs resources to claim victory. Plenty of fluids, some food if I can stomach it, and a lot of rest. It’s not too much to ask for, is it? 

Yes, yes, it is. I can’t be a lazy slob. I need to do something productive or else… What exactly? I don’t know, but I have to try to do something. I’ll give it whatever oomf I have in reserve. 

I can do this. I can do this. I can’t do this. I need a nap.

To steal a word from my right-proper Gran, who rarely said a bad word: Fiddlesticks! Make sure to put plenty of emphasis on the F.

I can’t sit here and do nothing for one more day. So here I sit in front of my computer attempting to pen this prose. If I can just do this, I won’t feel so completely useless and utterly pointless. If I can find words and they make sense? I can trick myself into believing that I’m still a person and not a petri dish growing a colony of microscopic aliens.

That might be the worst part of being sick for longer than a few days. When it stretches on, and there’s no sign that it will ease up? When your immune system doesn’t do its job, and your chronic illness means the small things always become massive problems? After a while, you forget that you’re a person and become whatever ills you.

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Am I being a tad bit dramatic and indulging in a mountain of self-pity? Sure, and there’s a chance that it’s not that bad. I’ll be back on my feet in short order, hopefully. But right now, I feel like a lump of cells rendered inert by an infectious force. I’m not me. I’m not a person. I’m…Sick.

This might be a vain attempt at reclaiming my humanity, but it’s something I can do. These words, as meaningless as they may be, are a reclamation effort. This infection might have taken over my body, but it won’t claim my sanity. Well, what’s left of it anyway. 

My mind is my own. To a certain extent— aside from mental illness— my mental health is something I can shape, control, and choose to heal. This is my mind and my body. 

This is my day, and these are my minutes to do as I please. I am a person. I am me. A little weird, mentally unstable, and occasionally I have an unfiltered brain, but I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I just need to be a sick for a few more days.

At least I put words on this page. That’s something, for what it’s worth. Victory? You’re right, I should get back to the car crash videos. Until we chat again, be well, my friend.

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