Can there be anything more frustrating than being sick? Have spent the last two weeks fighting God only knows what–some kind of flu/cold/cough thing. I can respect being sick, but it drives me crazy when sick dudn’t respect me back…it’s like the virus is toying with me, playing with me…teasing me then going to the bar and bragging to his buddies about the schmuck he’s fleecing of nutrients and anti-bodies.
I’ve been sick enough to be classified as sick–no going out, no play time–hell–no work time. BUT I’m not sick enough to just lie listless in bed, too exhausted to do anything. Sick enough to know I’m sick, not so sick that I can’t think about work or going out…now, going out is neither here, nor there. At heart, I love being home, but the not working part is driving me crazy!
I have edits to do, a manuscript in progress, notes to do on a variety of story ideas, I can’t afford to be namby–pamby sick, dang it.
Luckily, the virus seems to have taken pity on me and is in the process of departing (hence the rant). Still, I’ve lost 10 days worth of writing, and now I’m stuck–do I cut them as losses or do I try to make up for lost time?
