The tea I’m drinking seems to be all sugar. But I drink it anyway because even though it is sickeningly sweet, it is still hot and this is one of those days and I need a hot beverage. Its soothing—even if the excess sugar leaves too much of an aftertaste. I’m having such horrible mood swings. And I’m too blah. I’m always blah, but not as much as right now.
And I was so happy today. There wasn’t any reason for it, I just was. And now I’m not and I’m sick, but in a not-sick-but-still-sick way. The pre-sickness-sick I call it, where my body is just starting to shut down and my mind is only just getting drowsy. I suppose I’ll be proper sick in 2 days. Such a wimp. Me that is, not you. You’re nice with your enviously good, strong immune system which is destroying all antigens like a boss with its B and T cells.
I just gave the ‘because I said so’ reason to my brother. I have a brother, by the way. He’s young—younger. About 4. Why don’t I know his exact age? I swear I normally do. But I don’t right now. Anyway he asked me why he shouldn’t wear his shoes on the bed and I said, “Because I said so.”—the pre-sick-sickyness is messing with my patience and reasoning capabilities. I could’ve told him his shoes are dirty and that it’ll make the bed dirty too, or that it’s common courtesy to take your shoes off at the door. But no. Instead: because I said so.
Everyone is going out to dinner. I’m not. Because I said so. All right, I’m not insolent or inconsiderate enough to say that to my mother. I’m just drained. Drained and tired and PSS-inflicted (PSS: pre-sickness-sick, FYI). Not to mention I have an English assignment to do. I’m missing out on good food, though. And if it weren’t for the PSS, I wouldn’t have minded going and just staying up later to finish the homework, because food. The aunty makes good food and she’s nice and her grandkid is the cutest kid I’ve ever met (after my younger brother and sister, of course). But I’m home. Because I said so.
Am I even making sense? I seem very disjointed to me. I was happy and now PSS. So blah much tired.
I haven’t written a story in ages. I drank all of my tea
I believe in God. I don’t know why I said that right now. As long as we’re getting to know each other, I figured why not? (Not that I ever leave you any time to say anything about yourself here—and no, not ‘cause this is my blog—turf—I’m like that in real life too. Just jabberjabberjabber)
I’m pukish. I’m such a brat when I’m sick/near-sick. I’m not used to being sick. I don’t handle it well. My skin’s peeling off of my fingers. Does anyone else feel inadequate when their skin is peeling off? Half-done and faulty? Not in a broad, philosophical sense, but in an everyday sort of way.
I have a hair on my knuckle. A singular strand of hair—tiny, disappears completely some days and comes back when I’m not doing so well to kick me down further—taunting me with the utter ridiculousness of its existence.
Because I said so.
Well, buhbye now,