I am on my death bed right now.
(Except it kind of is, because I really am going to be fine.)
My mom called me last night from the store, and asked if I needed her to pick up anything. I responded, "No, I think your time would be best spent looking for a polt for me in the cemetary."
I was up until 4:30am trying to figure out how I could make Top Ramen from the couch. And I did not succeed.
I have blogged for two, consecutive, days in a row.
I hate being sick. Usually I wouldn't mind too much, but I think over the course of the last few days I've watched all the Netflix I can handle--and I'm all caught up on my Facebook stalking.
Tonight is the Christmas party for my husband's work. I really want to go. They are going to a local hibachi grill, and I am craving to see a volcanic onion. Last time we went, Mista T. and I ate this:
So please, if you have a moment, send me some good vibes for a miraculious recovery.
That is, unless you want me to continue to blog all the time. Then you can keep wishing me illness and impending death.