Les Miserable

It's been about 3 weeks since my first round of fever, and things are only just promising to improve. I've slunked around the house for days, a mysterious doppleganger of my former self, making ghostly nose-blowing noises and tackling the resident pantry rat in favour of bed bugs. Let's face it, misery loves company. My nose, in a fit of feminine vengeance, spewed wrath upon my ear and eye. I was pretty peeved myself about the negligent medical care I received that resulted in the re-invasion of bacteria.

I'm growing up. It was a dreary realisation- sifting through job advertistments and not having a sense of humour when my nose needs it the most. Work is barely amusing, triggering a slightly above static response from me. Imagination eludes me. I am frustrated, unable to move backwards, hold on to what I feel defines my quirks, or play the fields I used to. Am i really moving on? P.L. Travers must have understood this well enough to describe the development of Annabelle in Mary Poppins. I think he mourned the same.

I wish the world would stop for a while, just to let me be me. Stoppit. stoppited.