I would get them, but they are all the way over there, and I am right here.
Know what's worse than dying? The death that never comes.
Also, if you ever think you want to sit on our couch again, just avoid the section with the permanent buttprint in it where I've been sitting for the last eight days in JT's athletic clothing, sipping chicken broth and eating trail mix one piece at a time while I try (and mostly fail) not to laugh or cough hard enough to pee myself or puke.
The new year can only get better, right?
Still, I feel really blessed, because even though I am in shorts and a tshirt and I feel like the insides of a marshmallow probably feel after getting thrown in the fire, the thermometer has not shown a temp above 98.6 for so much as a second. I call that nothing short of a miracle. So grateful...good luck, little baby. Hang in there.
Other good news: judging by my couchside garbage receptacle, I have lost at least 5 pounds in mucous and faceblood.
Now someone get all these effin charger cords off me. I'm trying to sleep.
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