I feel as though I should apologize to you, dear diary, for not writing in so long, just as I did when I was a child. I mean, apologizing to some inanimate object with no awareness of time seemed like a logical thing to do back in the day. Luckily I’m a grown woman, and I no longer do such inane things.
Anyway, things have taken a turn for the worse around here. At first I thought it was just a lone incident. Maybe an illness that was real, but perhaps somewhat “stretched” to seem worse than it actually was. Men are real pussies when they’re sick. I should know, I’ve dealt with enough sick men to realize that.
We had just eaten ice cream. He had blueberry cheesecake, and I had chocolate laced with thick peanut butter ribbons that would just melt in my mouth instantly. Suddenly he got up out of bed looking a bit concerned, and retreated to the bathroom. It was the perfect time to steal some of his blueberry ice cream.
It was better than mine. Shit!
“What’s your problem?!” I yelled from the bedroom, between quick bites of his ice cream.
Later he emerged looking tired. The kind of look that women have in the movies after they’ve just given birth. He told me he threw up, and I was secretly jealous that his ice cream calories didn’t count.
Then I realized that I had been eating from his tainted ice cream, and that it was only a matter of time.
The night came and went without incident. Neither of us got much sleep. I kept imagining all of his contaminated microbes flying around the room with each exhale, coating every surface in our room, including me. Threating to enter my body, and make me throw up, and piss out my ass. Yes, that was a new symptom now. “GI”-joe, fucking up shit internally. A real American hero.
I realized I had to put on my proverbial scrubs, and play nurse again. Yay. I gave him medication to make his symptoms more bearable, (i.e. something that would make him a productive member of society again, hopefully) and I made him drink fluids to avoid dehydration. Ain’t nobody got time fo dat!
He began looking alive again, and I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. My partner in crime was almost back! My aptly timed, bulimic ice cream eating buddy was back! Finally, I can take these shitty proverbial scrubs off and just live, because nothing annoys me more than having to nurse a man who doesn’t take directions well. At least I can curse this patient out without fear of getting “written up”. I was the boss.
Just when things were looking up, Taylor came home from school. She barely said hello, and went straight upstairs, which was odd. I later went upstairs to see what she was up to. I took one look at her, and realized that she had the same pale look that Brent had only hours earlier.
Shit. Another man down.
I donned a new pair of proverbial scrubs and called housekeeping for a “terminal clean” on my entire house STAT! As luck would have it, I just picked up my proverbial housekeeping outfit from the cleaners last week.