We've established that I'm sick. I didn't go to the doctor but I wish I had because now it's the weekend. I do not want to go to the hospital.
Flip has decided that he is feeling poorly, for which he needed to buy large quantities of Crown Royal and beer. He said it would make me feel better. I do not drink. At all. Yes, I know I'm messed up. That is not relevant here.
It is now 8:45 p.m. We have had nothing to eat today but an English muffin and a package of microwave popcorn, both prepared by me. I just put on a pot of sushi rice because it was all I could manage. I washed an entire sink full of yesterday's dishes, getting my pajamas wet in the process. The red ones. The floor, too. I muttered the whole time. Flip said that I have great comedic timing. This made me angrier.
"I'm the one who's sick here. You're supposed to be taking care of ME." He laughed some more as he swigged his Heineken. I'm sure it was guilty laughter. He was trying to charm me into a better mood so I would laugh, too, and his guilt would dissolve magically in the steamy, germ-filled kitchen. It didn't work.
I don't like to be competitive here, but only one illness to a family, and I got there first. Any more than that is a recipe for disaster. It is also highly unfair.
I love the man dearly, but I do not like him right now. Besides his wussy copycat psychosomatic ailment, he is channeling Jimi Hendrix on his computer. That is not the kind of music I wish to hear when I am in the process of expiring.
They will find my parched bones one day, feet in the air like a dead bird. "Hmmm, it looks as if the lady starved to death," the Medical Examiner will say, shaking her head cheerfully. "By the way, what's for lunch today?"