Actually, that's false. Death does not look good on me, and so I cannot wait for the day (hopefully tomorrow) that my skin is not pasty white, my eyes are not glazed and dilated, my lips are not a greyish blue color, and the circles of black beneath my lashes disappear.
Seriously. I don't think I've been this violently sick since I was a kid. Whatever this particular strain of stomach bug is, it's a doozy. Last night was the worst -- in the past when I've had a norovirus, I'll only empty my stomach three or four times over 24 hours. Not so with this bout -- 9 times in 8 hours. OUCH.
I am so done with this. Beyond looking like death, I've felt like dying, rather than going through this anymore. It's much, MUCH better at this point, but last night...wow. WOW. SO. FREAKING. SICK.
Poor Adam has it, too. And his sisters. And two of his brothers. And six of his cousins (so far). And his dad. And my roommate.
It's like the plague!
But really. I'm about ready to be done. Because, death does not look good on me (nor does it feel good) -- yet, I'm too exhausted to put on make-up to cover it up. Probably wouldn't make much of a difference, anyway.
Adam, however, disagrees with the "look like death" thing. Honestly, I never thought I'd find a man who would tell me I was beautiful when I, in my opinion, clearly look awful; who'd cuddle me up close to help me feel better; who'd kiss me despite my dry, dehydrated lips; who'd spend an entire afternoon watching Lord of the Rings on a cushion bed in the living room with me; who'd be so sweet and kind no matter how I look or feel.
I am the luckiest sick girl in the world.
Best sick day ever.
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