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I am currently suffering fro the NASTIEST most WHOREable virus that has ever attacked my immune system.

As most feverishly deranged people, I’m not ashamed to admit that either I’m feverishly deranged, or you’re out to get me. Could go either way.

"Mommy needs a hug."

“Mommy needs a hug.”

(Dream sequence)

It all started two weeks ago with my daughter, she was sick for a full week, poor baby. Her fever spiked to 105.5. Then my son got sick, then me and the husband.
But I’m the only one who’s still sick.
Is this coincidence? Can’t be, and the resentment I feel for my family, or “The Healthies”, as they shall be known from this moment forward (in case they read this, I don’t want them knowing I wrote a post regarding their disgusting good health) knows no bounds.
In fact, If they didn’t bring me popsicles and other gifts of medicine and chicken soup; catering, in fact, to my every need, I might sit here and think hopelessly about how I’d take them all out, if I were well enough to get up, or had the strength to do something coordinated, like think.
Since I don’t, I can only assume that the healthies are trying to off me instead.
I have multiple delusions pointing to that reality, as well as the voices, which have formed a very persuasive argument inside my swollen, overheated brain.

The healthies are playing right now. Probably laughing at me as I lie here, incapacitated, having nursed the lot of them through this snotty mess of a flu last week, and the week before. My son just poked his head around the corner into the living room where I am ailing upon my recliner. He says:
“Mommy, do you need anything?”
It’s hard to despise his healthy glow when he’s so sweet.
“A popsicle please”
But only If it’s not been poisoned.

The original is still the best. I tried the "Tropical" variety, but it stung my throat. A malicious hoodwink perpetrated against me, personally, by the entire Popsicle company.

The “Tropical” variety stung my throat, which was nothing but a malicious hoodwink perpetrated against me, personally, by the entire Popsicle company.

Ah, but this is not my mission right now. Right now, I’m answering questions about my blog, a Q&A sent to me by Parenting is Funny. (Which may become my final statement— If I’m dead in the morning, it was the boy.) Go read her blog, she’s funny.

1: When and why did you start blogging?

20 minutes ago, because I had to do this Q&A, and it’s the first time I’ve been able to hold the laptop steady for any period of time for almost a week. It appears the husband has noticed, he just asked if I’d like a pillow for my head. For my HEAD? or FOR my head? The healthies are always asking tricky questions.
The smallest one, K, comes over and hands me a toilet paper roll dressed up to look like a turkey, with a million different colored cut outs of her hand stapled to the back to make it’s plumage. Glitter is coming off on my hands.

IS IT POISON GLITTER?

“I make it for you, Mommy, gobble-gobble” She says, laughing.
They’re slippery, using the cute one to achieve their nefarious ends.

Hah! I see through your rouse. You healthies might as well have sent me white powder in an envelope.

Hah! I see through your ruse. You healthies might as well have sent me white powder in an envelope.

2: Is there any reason behind your blog’s name?

Oh yes. Reason. Never let your guard down, even when you nap. They say it’s the fever… But can I really be sure? Isn’t that what they WANT me to think? That I’m the crazy one? Isn’t that juuuust what the assassin sent to murder me in my sleep would say? Can’t. Trust. Anyone.

“Just take a nap, Naptimethoughts, we’ll take care of everything… “

I’m here to tell you that you never …. Nap… But so sleepy… They must have put a sleeping pill in my popsicle… That’s rule number one— Never underestimate a healthy.
I can hear the husband shushing the children so that Mommy can sleep. What? They don’t want me around? I’m not pleasant enough company for healthy people? The Voices have been vindicated…

I seem to have lost several hours. Sometime during my nap, the husband took my computer and put it back in its’ bag. Hopefully he didn’t figure out my sophisticated password (birthday) and read this log, or I’m surely dead by morning.

3: If there’s one thing you dislike about blogging, what is it?

What’s not to like? It’s a diary, it’s a blog (is that redundant?) it’s a time stamp on the people you last considered a threat to your life. It’s dead useful. Pun intended.

4: Have you ever thought of quitting your blog?

No.

5: Have any nasty trolls stopped by your blog and left comments?

Yes— in fact there appear to be two little trolls wandering around me as… We… Speak. Shhhhhh… Don’t rouse them. They’re always making comments. There is no way to get them to STOP making comments.

They. Never. Stop. Talking. Aaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh.... Mommy has a migraine...

They. Never. Stop. Talking. Aaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh…. Mommy has a migraine…

Now the little troll’s climbing on me. She’s laughing the laugh of a sweet baby, but I know better. The husband pries her off of me, and she cries “I love you, Mama”.
She’s out for my blood. I can feel it.
Trolls, both of them. The bigger healthy troll comes over and kisses my hot cheek.
“I hope you feel better soon, Mommy” He says.
Right. This from the one that put a sleeping pill in my popsicle.

6: Have you written any controversial blog posts?

I write a blog?
Looks like it’s time for my medicine.

7: Have you ever experienced losing your blogging Mojo? How did you get it back?

That’s two questions. You’re all in cahoots with the healthies, aren’t you? You may think you can just pull the wool over my eyes because I have a million degree fever, and won’t notice… well I’m noticing, all you healthy people out there, and I may have too much snot in my head to hear you, but I know two questions when I see them, and that’s two questions.

The husband is asking if I’m comfortable in my recliner, or if I want to come to bed. He’s tricky, that one. If I could see properly, I’d Google which place would be easier for him to get a pillow over my face before I made a decision. I can’t, though, and at this point, death might be preferable.
The snot is unbearable.
I can only hope the NyQuil mixes with whatever poisonous concoction the healthies have brewed for my tea will do the job quickly and quietly.
If there’s an afterlife, I hope to see you there.

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