I am outnumbered three to one by males in this house.
No matter their age, men are babies when sick.
I hate people who share germs with anyone this house. They have no idea how greatly I suffer.
Thank gawd for my immune system, it appears to be the only active one in this !@#$ing house!!!
How a minor ailment can sweep through my home, with such brutal life ebbing force, I will never know. One moment they are all fine, the next they are dying. Yet, most mysteriously of all, I am only barely inconvenienced by my own equally-poorly-timed illness. I find that I am too busy keeping them from their own looming death to have time to sit in a dark room and moan that no one has ever suffered this much before.
And just when I get all sick of dealing with the dying swan routine and decide to get all hard assed on them and tell them to just suck it up, they will survive, the puking begins.
Not even my drama queens would fake that for sympathy and wimpiness. Damn, they are actually sick ... and my days should be numbered. I -- the number one vomit-slinger, brow-wiper, and cracker-bringer -- should never be able to evade this death bug.
That's all, for now. I will be back soon. I hope.