Ick. Sick.

I feel awful. My head is foggy, and my nose is stuffy. My eyes feel like they’re going to explode like overripe tomatoes, splitting at the seam and oozing squishy flesh. What feels like an enthusiastic junior high band is pounding at my temple. My tummy is swirling in knots of distress, nauseous and painful. I hate being sick.

I especially hate being yelled at for being sick, and being unable to have the option to not work through illness without coming across as a high-maintenance bitchy princess. Yes, I went home early. Maybe I am too demanding, self-righteous and spoiled and I don’t know my place. But fuck! I feel like I’m going to pass out. I don’t look sick because I’m doped up on cold medicine and I’m wearing a pound of makeup. I try. I really do try to be professional, but I can’t do it 365 days of the year. I don’t show up drunk or hung over. I don’t make excuses and try to get out of working. Sometimes I get sick.

Shivering, wrapped in a blanket I sat in the bar. I watched the scarce customers sip beer without taking their jackets off and I wondered why the fuck am I supposed to get naked in a room where it’s too cold to remove a scarf?

I’m going to bed.