Give Up.

If this post had a time stamp it would read 4:18am. I remember a time, not that long ago, when 4:18am meant it was time to consider making a cup of coffee and deciding where to watch the sun rise, before going to bed. Ok, so it was that long ago, probably 14 years or so. Sigh. Now it just means I'm absolutely tired of being sick.

I emailed my boss(es) earlier this evening to tell them I was giving up and keeping my germs at home on Monday. I hate it. I hate taking sick leave. I never get sick when I don't have much going on, it's always when I'm slammed busy. I could probably muddle through half a day or more tomorrow, but I'm pretty sure if I hadn't muddled through quite so many days last week I probably could have gotten more rest then and would be closer to well now.

I give up. I'm staying home and trying to rest. Except clearly I've been awake since 3:3oam. That seems to be the magic hour when whatever I take before bed for my cough wears off. I'm now laying on the couch with the couch blankie over my head, which serves two purposes. First, it creates a Vick's tent which will hopefully help my cough. Second, it keeps Casper from seeing the light from my laptop out the living room window, which always results in him slamming himself against the back door until I let him in to hog the couch.

I haven't had a decent night's sleep in 7 days. Why am I not comatose?