Something happens when your skin feels like burning and has clusters of blisters on it — namely, you have a very difficult time wearing a shirt. Ergo, I have largely missed work due to not being able to follow the Dress and Honor Code.
Seriously such a lame reason.
And something happens when you have a very difficult time wearing a shirt — you get holed up in your apartment.
This one time: I lived next door to an honest-to-goodness agoraphobe. He was probably the best neighbor I’ve ever had — extremely quiet and obviously kept to himself.
I’m starting to worry that my current neighbors are concerned that I am also an agoraphobe seeing as I haven’t stepped foot outside our apartment, aside from the appointment I had with an insurance adjuster because our next-door neighbor hit our brand new car (yeah, that was awesome) and the appointment I had with my doctor to see if I could coerce him into fixing my ailments a whole lot faster than nature intends. I could not, in case you were curious, as is evidenced by my still being in the apartment, really cold.
They might also begin thinking I’m a vampire — I mean, they don’t know whether or not I leave after dark or not. That would be so much cooler than what’s actually going on.
I am sorry to say that I am beginning to feel better in that “Well, I can technically do the dishes and make dinner and clean the apartment” sort of way. I hate it when that happens. I’m trying to fight it as much as I can, but since I’ve spent approximately 165 hours in our apartment (seriously I haven’t even gone to get the mail) this week, it seems ridiculous to just let things go. Plus, you realize you’ve hit a real, actual low point when you’re eating off either A) dirty dishes or B) serving platters and/or cutting boards.
Yeah. I let myself get there. Multiple times.
Husband says it’s been really warm outside, and I’m mildly concerned that my body will take a lot of time acclimating to the sun and hot weather. And who knows what will happen to my respiratory system when I eventually begin breathing actual oxygen rather than my own re-circulated air. Also, I’m starting to forget that there are other breakfast and lunch and snack foods besides quesadillas. Let’s not forget, either, all the television that has been taken in. Full seasons of multiple shows. I am either going to emerge a brilliant lawyer/detective/sniper/closing negotiator/thirtysomething-year-old with an incredibly intuitive witty repartee and quick thinking skills or with a slightly lower IQ than when I first came in. I am thisclose to getting myself a CapitalOne Venture Card even though I only fly about once every other year.
Get me out of here. Please. Consider this an S.O.S. I’ll even put on a shirt when you arrive.