Today's definition of "lazy":
Sitting on the couch in your underwear and bra shaving your legs into a basin while watching Maury because you didn't feel like standing up in the shower that long.
Not that I would ever do that.
I'm supposed to be packing.
Instead, I'm procrastinating, because I'm much, MUCH better at that.
I have boxes, newspapers, and Rubbermaid containers in my car. I have an apartment full of stuff that simply can't live here without me, and someone needs to get bizzy and Git R Done. (I had a minor rant on Facebook this morning regarding Larry the Cable Guy, which occurred after I saw his Prilosec commercial. He irritates the shit out of me. Meanwhile, the phrase "Git R Done" is now officially stuck in my head. Fuck you, Larry The Cable Guy. Fuck you to hell.)
In my defense, however, I'm pretty sure I have West Nile Virus. Or maybe malaria. Or Yellow Fever. Whichever it is, it's something hideous passed on by mosquitoes because those bastards have been eating me for breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and two snacks every single day for the past week. I started counting my bites (because I'm OCD about shit like that) and quit at 79, just on my arms and hands.
Basically, I itch so badly that I can barely stand myself.
*Fun fact: It would take roughly 1,200,000 mosquitoes to completely drain the human body of blood.
*Not so fun fact: There are roughly 1,199,999 mosquito bites on my body.
|This sign needs to be added to the New York state flag. I'm going to start lobbying for it during the next election, when I run for governor and force the grocery stores, drug stores, and Target to start selling liquor, like they do in normal states.|
Anyway, I totally blame New York. And Dan.
There is so much stagnant water in this state that mosquitoes flock here from miles around to party like it's 1999, breed, and retire.
Northern New York is the mosquito version of Fort Lauderdale. Truest fucking story ever.
So Friday, I started getting a sore throat. As I itched and scratched and bitched and moaned about how itchy I was and how bad my throat hurt, it suddenly occurred to me:
Dude, you're totally dying of mosquito born illness.
Remember the time in the book Little House on the Prairie (not the tv series, Little Dynasty on the Prairie, but the actual book) where Laura, Mary, Baby Carrie, Ma and Pa all have Fever 'n Ague from all the mosquito bites? And if Laura hadn't crawled to the pump and brought them all water, they totally would have died?
Saturday morning I woke up with a raging fever, burning sore throat, headache, body ache, and approximately 564843957 more mosquito bites.
I was a goner, for sure.
I dragged my sad and sorry ass into the living room and prayed for death.
And a bean burrito from Taco Bell, as a Last Meal before I headed towards the Pearly Gates.
One of my prayers came true: Dan and his dad drove a 40 mile round trip to bring me two bean burritos from the Bell.
I could die in peace.
Only I didn't. Instead, I woke up Sunday.
I still felt shitty, I was still itchy, but dammitalltohell, I was still alive.
I blame my hearty European genes. And the fact that everyone in my family lives to be 90.
Which leads me to today, my apartment, and my lack of activity. I feel icky. I'm itchy. And truth be told, when it comes to packing? I don't wanna.
Meanwhile, thanks for the love you all shared after my last post, when I had a massive pity party. I did manage to somewhat pull my head out of my ass and search for the elusive silver lining, and I'm pretty sure I will keep on trudging, as I normally do. (I'm a trudger. Life sucks, for sure, but somewhere in the distance you'll find me trudging along. My feet will hurt, I'll be hot and thirsty, and I'll no doubt whine a good deal, but at the end of the day there I'll be. Curse you, hearty European ancestors!!)
This is a blog posting that apparently has no graceful or natural ending so...
(If there are a boatload of typos it's because I didn't proof read or pay attention to spell check. FYI.)