After spending the entire night coughing up my soul, I dragged my ass to work simply because I felt like a dead shit when I thought about calling in sick. Thankfully, my boss has a heart and sent me home straight away. He may have been more worried about his immune system than mine but I'm grateful nonetheless.
During my night of insomnia, I Google Imaged the shit out of next season's trends and decided on a few key pieces I needed to get – right now. That decision may have been made by the cough syrup. Seriously, I even wrote a list and noted specific details I wanted in a goddamn sweater dress. That is the perfect example of insanity triggered by boredom.
Anyway, I found myself with two choices: go home to bed and resume my faux nap or sick-shop my way to health and happiness. My doctor is near the biggest shopping centre in Brisbane so it was almost responsible for me to shop. Sadly, it wasn't the best idea I've ever had. I'm now sitting in a cafe feeling an interesting mixture of guilt and defeat. Despite my best efforts, I don't have the energy or patience required to find the perfect combination of textures in a pair of leggings right now.
I have however, managed to find sprinkles of happiness in the little things. I managed to make a sales guy fear for his job by asking him to stop harassing me. I also glared at a small child when they were screaming. I even managed to freak out the fellow patrons of this lovely little cafe by coughing like a middle-aged man who lives in a boarding house.
I'm now daunted by the task of facing my idiotic doctor. Yeah I know, he has to be smart because he's a doctor. My opinion is based on an incident where I couldn't walk and instead of referring me to physio, he told me to YouTube physio exercises. He also sounds really dumb when he speaks and wears the most hideous shirts, not in an ironic way. The only reason I still see him is because I never have the energy to find a new doctor when I need to visit one.
See what I mean? I'm a terrible person today. I fear I may be so horrible that I could inspire Gandhi himself to bitch slap me. The only way I can possibly save humanity from my satanic tendencies is to limit myself to the confines of my apartment. Hopefully, a fluffy new blanket and terrible girly movies will be enough to cure me.