I sat down today to write my post and couldn’t conjure up a rational thought. I am a little discombobulated, living life through a veil of Nyquil.
So instead I sit in stupor, watching Lara Croft: Tomb Raider again. Although I am in awe of Angelina Jolie’s fighting prowess (she’s attacking mercenaries invading her home while hanging from a chandelier on bungee chords), I am mostly envious of her good health. I wonder how does one decide to become a mercenary? Is there some sort of aptitude test? What does a want ad look like? Are you good with guns and willing to take orders from a tyrant who cares little about your well-being? I bet they don’t offer health insurance either.
Or life insurance. The premiums would be atrocious.
And I can’t taste food. No taste whatsoever. Theoretically, this should be a good thing. No taste equals little hunger, which hopefully leads to lost weight. Yet, I can’t help but feel crabby. I love food. And I had a bunch of things I wanted to make, but it’s dangerous to test recipes when you can’t differentiate between good and bad.
And Emeril is being a pouty cat too. I can’t decide if he’s mad at me or if he’s constipated. Or if he’s mad at me AND he’s constipated. Or if he’s just being Emeril. The differences are minute.
I’m tired of staying inside. I’m tired of chicken noodle soup. I’m deeply afraid that the amount of OJ I’ve consumed may have given my skin a permanent orangish glow. I can’t wait to get better.
Tomorrow will surely be better.