I am dog, dead tired. I mean, I'm sick. I have some sort of bronchitis. It's not the worst thing in the world. Not being able to breathe is the worst thing in the world. That, actually, may be objectively true. But I can breathe, I just can't talk without coughing. I can stop coughing if I constantly sip Coke. Or take vicodin.
One day, I will tell you about the vicodin.
I really can't be taking vicodin. And I draw the line at two Cokes in a day, after which I switch to throat coat tea and then water; they are effective in that order. I'm sick of sweet. I'm sick of wet, I feel like my mouth is getting wrinkly like your fingers get in the bath. I mean, it isn't—
I want a potato chip.
I'm tired of having to pee every two minutes.
But I was tired before I was sick, because of the horcruxes. Or maybe when you're tired, your immune system stops protecting you from horcruxes and then viruses.
I want to sleep for like a week. I want red flannel hash and orange juice for breakfast. I want to sweep out every room in the apartment. I want to clean out the refrigerator. I want to scrub the bathroom. I want to run. I want there to be sun. I want that grilled spinach sandwich that I used to get at Filter. I want to ride my bike. I want to wear my bikini.
Eh, I thought it might help.
