I’m dying. Ok, maybe not. I freely admit I’m one of those annoying whiny sick people that everyone talks shit about. I’m quite sure it stems from when I lived at home and my mother would turn into Super Mom when I’d got sick. She’d always be there with a bucket in case I threw up or a cool washcloth for my forehead – flipping it every hour or so when it’d warm up. Mom would always seem to know when I’d want some juice, 10-K, warm tea or a cool bath.
So of course, now that I’m not living at home, this all translates into me moaning and grunting until someone asks me what I want.
On the other hand, I think I’m pretty good to be sick around. I will never forget the value of a cool washcloth on a feverish forehead.
