It's that time of year again: fog, food, and a little swine on the side. The common flu, or as it just may be, the 'ol flying pig, has found a comfortable place to lie within my body. Call it luck, or my conditioned hospitable-like charm passed down from my mother, my new friend has decided on an extended stay.
I'm trying to figure out exactly why I can't breathe at the moment - either my mucus cells are aggregating, or the brother used a full can of Lysol in the living room. I'm unwanted, unapproachable, and un- to the max. Yet, the two that I can consistently count on to knead at my stomach and prove their worth as comforting companions are the felines. Penetrating my zone of infection in a bold fashion, I can't help but callously wonder why this unconditional love can only be found in a cat. However, I digress.
One thing that a faulty immune system does bring is a bit of insight, or rather - outsight, as I would like to call it. I realized that yes, I do have a life, and when I'm sick it drastically takes a turn to a hibernative state. Like a bear, I become a gormandizer and drag my heels to bed as the sun sets. As a matter of fact, I can feel the Tylenol PM starting to suggest such a slumber at this very moment. Even though I would like to be elsewhere, the comfort of my germ-infested blanket is subtly calling my name with a sense of desperation.
"I'm coming," I respond. Then I think to myself, "Did I really just address an afghan out loud?" Warning: if you have the flu, stay out of the public for this reason.
I love winter, especially all the perks that come but once a year. Hot cocoa, layers upon layers, and roaring fires you can cozy up to are things that can seemingly be overlooked, yet auspiciously enough this sickly individual is emotively aware. The occasional viral infection can get you down. The occasional viral infection will get you down. Just be sure to grab the purring pets and a good book to ride it out.
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