There's nothing like spooning on the couch against a boy you really, truly like who is rubbing your head, talking to you about celebrity gossip, and telling you how gigantic your ribs really are to make you say, "Damn...I miss having a fella of my own".
Tonight I am supposed to see OKGO at the Grog Shop but I feel one helluva cold coming on (I call it the Phoebe-Virus). All day, I've been sniffling, sneezing, and coughing my blasted head off...and it's barely attached these days. My insides are itchy...like I wish I had a brush I could stick down my throat to sort of pumice myself from the inside out. Supposedly I'm the only one who ever feels like this.
Phoebe thinks I have pleurisy.
At work, I have been repeating over and over "I am not sick...I am not sick", because even though the symptoms are there, I haven't begun to drag. My muscles aren't sore yet and my head isn't totally full of fog and weight. Like Bad Brains says,I've got that PMA! But believe me, I am an illness pro and I know it's coming. So the smart thing to do would be to get into my pajamas, eat soup, drink juice, and just veg so that I don't miss any work and my strength is saved for Pussyfoot (rumor has it that Sasquatch and the Sick-a-Billies are taking me home with them...supposedly I'll love it in Providence). Phoebe has been sick for over a week...I can't hack that.
But she's pretty dern excited about the show (and hasn't been too jazzed about things recently as she was existing under some heinous black cloud of sorts) and I don't want to wake up tomorrow kicking myself in the arse because I didn't go and missed "So Damn Hot" and "Don't Ask Me" live. Plus, this is a prime opportunity for Phoeberalla and I to expand my photo booth picture collection.
But I know I'm sick. I know what I SHOULD do. I just don't know what I WILL do. Whatever decision I make, it will be rough. If I go, I may be miserable and may extend my sickness and by extension, my misery and the misery of those around me. If I don't go, I may be miserable because I didn't go to Dick Dale, didn't go to Hank III, am not going to the Blasters, and have decided on only 1 out of 3 nights of Horrible Fest. What's happening to the rocker I once was? Not even green/yellow phlegm and barking would have stopped me.
This is the time when I need a boyfriend to force me to stay home and rub my stuffy head. Someone with a big stomach I can fall asleep on. Boys with big stomachs tend to be warm and warmth induces naps. Man, I would give all my cinnomin donuts to fall asleep while a boy was rubbing my head. That would beat the pants of cold medicine, tissues, pajamas, orange juice, a good nights sleep and OKGO live combined!
But I digress.
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