I am sick as a dog.
It is all I can do to half-drag myself out of bed, clutching a roll of toilet paper to my chest, dripping artificial tears, more in need of an “EPIC FAIL” t-shirt than ever. Preferably fire truck red.
I find myself cranking up the radio for really no reason other than to shake off my phlegm-inspired apathy. I am entirely too clumsy, bumping into ledges, corners, walls, scraping my head, the inside of my elbow.
I will curl up into a chair and re-read Wally Lamb’s “I Know This Much Is True” and the chapter on “sinus infections” in The American Medical Association’s Encyclopedia of Medicine. Maybe, if I look hard enough, I’ll find an index on my actual problem which is “when the sky is a gorgeous ambiguous blue you cannot stand, and you would honestly like nothing more than to be locked into a black room with cold, vulnerable walls that you will carve your name into with the sharp end of a discarded umbrella”.