If I could write a song.

It would be called, "F*** the Flu." I am done being sick, I have been cooped up in this little room for far too long with only George to keep me company. So I am now prepared to write the lyrics to the song, and have no intention of making it rhyme or even sound pleasant. Maybe it's actually going to be a poem, I'll decide later.

Oh f***ing flu get away from me. I never asked you to come my way. I don't want to hear you're pitiful voice cry that no one wants you. It isn't my problem you're unbearable, so leave. I miss giant sugar cookies, and snow cones, and seeing the sun. I haven't had Dr. Pepper in a week, so flu, you're no fun. {just started feeling the need to rhyme} I want to eat the whole fruit Jamba that is waiting downstairs, and not feel like crying when I swallow thin air. I wouldn't have kissed him had I only known that you were waiting to make my only form of communication my computer and phone. My head aches, my ears ache, every muscle from head to toe aches. I can't walk more than a flight of stairs unless I take a break. I have slept a good 6 days now; what more do you want? I have taken antibiotics, advil, homeopathics, even gone for a jaunt. Idaho and back, a very unpleasant trip, after throwing up for decades, I still can't give you the slip. And the swollen gland on my throat is the size of a potato. {that's a hyperbole} I hadn't shaved my legs in 4 days and found to my dismay that the task took too long for my stomach to weigh. So now here I again sit on the bed in my den, and it feels like my right leg belongs to a man. {thats not a hyperbole} I haven't the energy to brush through my matted hair, so instead I will leave it and pretend I'm a bear.