So I’ve got a cold.
If you know me at all, them you know that I never get sick. So you might also guess that when I do get sick, I am super unhappy.
[oh god crying baby. I’m writing this on a plane.]
Where was I? Oh yeah, unhappy. If it were just a matter of “oops, I was on a 4 day meth binge,” or “gee, I work in a giant petri dish” (Keating, 2012), I might have a better attitude about it. But no, it’s not due to any fault of my own; it’s due to all the coughing asshats that plague me on the bus and out in the world. Thanks, asshats. Now I’m on my way to a nice romantic weekend getaway with Husband in Lisbon, and I’m trapped on a plane with a screaming fucking baby and a river of snot coming out of my head the likes of which makes the annual flooding of the Nile seem like a minor inconvenience.
[Someone please stuff a sock in that baby. Seriously, parent. I have some industrial strength knock-out pills in my bag. Row 13. Purple hair. You only need ask.]
Yeah, prior to this head plague, I’d been eating well and juicing (the kind with vegetables) and generally being very good to myself. In fact I’d actually managed to lay off the booze for a whole 2 or 3 days. Yeah, I know! So how does my body reward me? By sitting idly by and allowing a stupid little virus to set up housekeeping. ON VALENTINE’S DAY. Right before a 4 day weekend in one of the loveliest cities in Europe.