urghz.

I am sick. I am ill and I am unwell and it has obviously affected my skillz of spell and grammar and discern and I am now unable to control the random z's I punctuate perfect words with, the synonyms I repeat in single sentences, and the order of past/present/participles I forgo and rebel against. I am sembabz and swollen and if you were to poke me with a something-sharp I would ooze out like a torn mochi only with the (innards) consistency of mercury. I've been dispensing my own body-weight-worth of phlegm, mucus and tears and every effort spent not wiping, blowing or reaching for tissue, has been wasted on the mirror, where I contemplate some sort of reprieve from the remorse of having my hair cut thus, with attempts at styling - only that has never been one of my fortes - especially with hair; change iz not good - sometimes change iz never good;
but apparently rhetoric is a symptom of my disease too.

I long for my 6ft man, and his calloused, nail-bitten fingers, stroking me well again - if not from his Midas/resurrecting touch, but from how gross the sensation of plastic bottle on upper arm can incite (even if I didn't have such big an upper arm and intimacy issues), and how an impending wellness can only signal a fitting retaliation in more violent but similarly-as-disturbing manners.

I am plotting them already.
(and I grow increasingly fuzzy and feverish.)
urghz.

boy, you iz making me illz just thinkin' bout youuse.