Pain. Pain. Pain.
I stagger out of bed, take lots of medication, collapse again.
"It's L! She wants to know if I can come over and play!"
"Not until you do your research project."
"That probably means not today."
Set child up on computer. Child produces a fitful spasm of typing regarding adaptation of desert animals. Child drags my ass downstairs to type for her. I type. "You typed that wrong." "My brain isn't here. I TOLD you that."
I poke at child until she digs up a decent amount of information. Did you know that turkey vultures piss themselves to stay cool? Neither did we.
Child calls L. back. Yells downstairs to me, "They say that you can drop me off whenever you like!"
"That's nice. I can't drive." Side effects = of the bad today. Plus the bronchitis.
Child calls L. back. Yells downstairs to me, "They'll pick me up as soon as they finish lunch."
"That's nice. Put clothes on."
I am secretly hoping that they'll invite her to spend the night. And that I'll feel well enough to go to dustyskinandall's performance tonight.
Not counting on either.
But either way - soon I shall be permitted to finish a fucking chapter in the fucking book that I am fucking reading. That'd be nice.
The industrial-strength Motrin has utterly failed to kick in, IMO.