I'm awake, sick, with no voice and fluid in my ears that has throttled off my pathetic hearing completely. We're in the deep end of the sensory pool today, so that means no music, no telephone and no conversation that isn't carried out with my inventive frenzied charades.
I've been over playing on myspace and generally seeing to what extent boredom will wrap it's tentacles around me this morning. Oh, it's got a hold of me now. I'm just about butter here.
Last night the boys were all gone by ten thirty, and silly Jacob steered me upstairs to take some Nyquil with a promise that he would complete everything which might probably needs to be done (read: drunk guy about to wash dishes) and I should wait for him up there.
I love NyQuil.
He said when he came upstairs an hour later I was face down on the bed with my underwear still on and one arm out of my shirt. Fast asleep.
He contemplated trying on his horns for a whole fifteen minutes, he said, before he decided against the risk of waking me up. Instead he fished me out of the rest of my clothes and got both of us under the blankets where he woke me up anyway with the drunken explorations of his hands on my flushed skin.
That's okay. I didn't mind. It was a little like making love underwater.
But you didn't hear that from me.
