I cuss more when I'm sick. Now I've lost my voice.
"I know I’m unloveable
You don’t have to tell me
I don’t have much in my life
But take it - it’s yours
I don’t have much in my life
But take it - it’s yours"
- the Smiths
I lost my voice.
Not that I really talk much, anyway.
In fact, I rather like the excuse not to.
But I do wish someone would talk to me. I've spent all day cooped up in Mom's bed. The dog doesn't even want to curl up next to me anymore.
I want Mom to come home. This whole time I've been sick all I've really wanted is some cooing or head-patting. Just a small "I'm sorry, honey" or "you want me to fix you something?" would be nice. Maybe a hot mug of tea and an extra pillow for my neck while I camp out on the couch with J.D. Salinger and my drawing tablet.
But they just laugh because I can't talk like a normal person. They call me sickie and sick-o and tease me for getting mono or something.
And they say, Oh, Becca... you're always sick.
I know.
It's because I like being sick.
That is why I do it, you know. I like being compromised. I love it. I like not being able to taste my food or not being able to sing along with the Smiths in the car. I like staring at the sunshine dripping down between the tree branches and knowing I'm too weak out for a walk in it or even lay out there because my fever will run too high. I like watching you scoop up a big bowl of raspberry chocolate ice cream and knowing I can't have any because it'll hurt my throat.
I'm just getting grumpy. It's not your fault.
But come on... can't anybody fix up a decent soup around here?
Yesterday I really thought I was getting better. Almost completely well, in fact. I went out walking and driving and out to lunch... out to Seattle, too.
I feel so strange now.
I put up the hammock just two hours ago. It was torturing me to feel the breeze on my face from the open window... to see the trees and the flower petals toussled... to smell the grass. So I fished about in the garage until I found the blasted thing. We only use it when we go camping, but that seems like such a grand waste. It tuckered me out stringing it up, I rested inside it for a good hour. Then I dragged my laptop and my books out there to keep me company. Thing is, I have to come back inside every time I want the Internet. The last time I got up from my little hammock spot two of the neighbor kids took my place. Now I'm back in my room pining away for the outside again.
I should just dump them out onto the ground and climb back in but I don't have a voice for chewing someone out.
And let's face it, I'm too fucking nice to ever do that anyway.
Little kids. Why do I even like them so much?
Once I read or heard a story about an old professor who was sick in bed - too sick to read, even. He hired someone to come in and read poetry to him for a few hours every day. The kid would never really get the poem at first... then the grouchy old guy would get all ruffled and explain it right, "No, no, you're reading it wrong... it's like this..." and then he would spout off the rest of the poem because he had them all memorised anyway.
I think I'd be something like that.
I guess that's all I ever really wanted, isn't it?
Someone to read poetry.
God, I don't even care if you like poetry.
Well I'm going to see if I can't get up and fix myself some tea on my own.
How pathetic is that?
That is so pathetic.
"I know I’m unloveable
You don’t have to tell me
For message received
Loud and clear
Loud and clear
Message received
I don’t have much in my life
But take it - it’s yours
I wear black on the outside
’cause black is how I feel on the inside
I wear black on the outside
’cause black is how I feel on the inside
And if I seem a little strange
Well, that’s because I am
If I seem a little strange
That’s because I am
But I know that you would like me
If only you could see me
If only you could meet me"