Feed a fever
The flu. Flu-imus sucks-imus. I haven’t had it in years. Except for now. And yesterday. And the week prior to that. What a rare delight. Did you ever have that fantasy that, as an overweight person, you would wake up from some illness and be suddenly 20lbs. lighter? Seriously? Oh, that cannot have been just me. Well, I didn’t sleep for my two-week or so visit with the flu. And I didn’t lose 20lbs. What I find so odd is that I ascribe the same despair to 20 as I did to 200. It seems so insurmountable. And why didn’t I lose weight whilst I was sick? Well, you see, my stomach isn’t attached because of the gastric bypass and I’m very rarely nauseous so vomiting, I know, I know, but you deserve to know the truth, rarely happens. Shit happens. Vomit doesn’t. Consequently, illness hardly ever removes my desire to eat. Because my throat had been torn asunder by a wolverine, I felt compelled to constantly pour things down it, tacks, razor blades, horrific sugar-free ice cream, really, it all felt the same to me. So I was sick, yet ate a lot. Except one day I think all I had was coffee and NyQuil. Not in the same cup, even I am repulsed by that. Here I am, on the mend, and ticked off that the least I could’ve done was waste away. So annoying. I just don’t think I was meant to be a waif. Or a serf. Just in case you were curious. Sad part is, all I can think about is I’m out of eggs so I can’t bake brownies tomorrow. God help me if I go to the store hungry.