My RA just popped in looking for the source of a loud and suspicious noise. It wasn't emanating from my room, but as she was leaving she noticed the sign I'd posted on the door.
"What does that mean, incubating death?" she asked, worried and a bit confused.
"Oh, I put that up because I'm sick," I replied, trying to achieve a matter-of-fact tone that didn't seem to work.
"Haha, overdramatic much?"
I shrugged. For the last two days, when I've been awake I've pretty much felt as though I'm a walking corpse. Perhaps it is overdramatic; then again, I normally don't sleep fifteen out of every twenty-four hours.
Obviously, I have neither plague nor meningitis. I have a cold. Colds are the most irritating illness to have because you feel like crap and get no sympathy from the world; it's not as interesting as saying "I have a poisoned spleen," or "My leg is haunted." I chose to highlight the drama of my misery and "incubate death."
According to one of my friends, I'm not allowed to incubate death. My boyfriend took the more succinct route:
"If you die, I'll have no one to visit and will have flown thirty hours for no reason."
That put me in my place.
WolfGrrl
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