A Case of The Shingles

A Case of The Shingles

So I’m having a bit of a lie-in with my dog in this super gross outfit (husband’s a-shirt, gross short-shorts) having my shingles. Dee dee dee.

Because I went on vacation up North and got the shingles. Because that makes sense, right?

I’ve just watched three episodes of True Blood. Where Stabler from Law and Order: SVU is a vampire in a pintstripe suit, yelling at people. I keep expecting Mariska Hargitay to barge in any second wearing her shoulder harness. ICE-T, too. And that Richard Belzer dude talking about conspiracies.

I have the shingles on my nethers. Pretty convenient place, that.

Pablo’s hanging out by me, but whenever I bust out the comb on him, he bails off the sofa. Even though he’s dripping with extra hair and it’s one billion degrees out. Why won’t he let me give him relief? He’s such an animal.

I don’t normally like sweet corn, but you know, it’s pretty good cold. Can’t explain that.

Our raspberry bushes are creaking with ripe berries. Come over and pick some. There’s burning nettles stuck in the middle of the bush, though. Be careful. I won’t come out to say hello; I’ve been braless all day. I’m super classy.

It’s uncomfortable to sit right now.

Did you know how huge a Valtrex is? It’s this lovely matte cobalt pill, about one inch long, half an inch wide. It’s really a marvel. It’s like choking down one of those pastel chalks. Except in cobalt, see.

I am prowling Netflix for more junk to watch. I watch TV when I feel sick.

Pablo says that I should take a nap. And a shower. How can I do both of those at once? He says he doesn’t know, he’s just a dog, god.

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