Chuck Norris, come kick this mucus in the ass!

This past week has been an in-depth study in the inadequacies of hydrocodone and the sheer ineptitude of medical professionals. Barring the mono incident during my junior year in college, this is by far the most miserable I have ever been. And when I say miserable, I mean so miserable that the act of swallowing my own spit actually keeps me awake at night. The sheer pain involved in contracting my throat makes me want to tear the heads off helpless gerbils. Though obviously I can’t do much more than make paste-o-gerbil in my oral cavity. Like pate’, only not.

I made it into wok for a solid hour yesterday when I decided the world would definitely be a better place if I would take my cantankerous ass home to bed. Many hours of sleeping later and I was equally as cranky as when I left work. And my throat still felt like a breeding ground for unhappy scorpions.

This morning I made deals with myself: I did not have to wash my hair but I did have to shower. I did not have to shave my legs but I did have to brush my teeth. I did not have to dress in a professional manner but I did have to put on a bra. This made these accomplishments easier to stomach, simply because I had exempted myself from the more laborious tasks. Also, it’s winter. Who cares if I miss one day of leg shaving, anyway?

Once at work I realized what an awful, terrible thing it is to be cooped up in one’s apartment for many, many days in a row. It was abundantly clear to me upon sitting at my clean, clutter-free desk that my apartment had gone from meeting the definitions of those words to being an apartment that might actually collapse under the weight of stacks of leftover sherbert bowls and popsicle wrappers and half-eaten pasta frozen dinners. Much like cleaning the yogurt remnants from my three-day-old scarf, I apparently couldn’t be bothered with little things like putting the crusty dishes in the sink or picking discarded blankets off the floor.

And even though the thought of my living space sitting in such a mound of cluttered filth would normally send me straight home for cleaning, nothing short of a building fire and the smoldering remains of my belongings could illicit a greater reaction than ‘meh.’ And even now, thinking about the smoldering couch and charred shoes, my first thought is “that’s why you have renter’s insurance” followed immediately by “meh.”