Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with my body this week. Wednesday night was spent heaving over a toilet bowl; last night I managed to sleep for about half an hour sideways on my twin bed, feet dangling off one end and head hanging in a trashcan off the other. I got to see the sun rise, a privilege I would have immediately given up for just three more hours of sleep.
There used to be a time when my sick days were often spent like those Victorian ladies with the vapors-- in bed with toast and plenty of parental sympathy. As I get older, I get sick in far more disgusting ways. To top it off, I'm alone.
While it's no fun revisiting your dinner, it's even less fun to do it when there is no one to stroke your back and keep your hair from a horrible fate. It just makes you feel worse.
Luckily for me, I do have a chance to go home this weekend, but I'm a little scared to do it in my condition. The last time I was on a train while ill, an entire carriage-load of Glasgow-bound commuters thought that I was an irresponsible drunk with a hangover. I sacrificed my favorite sweatshirt to hide the evidence. So it's fair to say that I'm slightly worried.
So now, to sleep-- hopefully. We'll see if my poor body can handle the train ride later.
PS. Oh, that picture that I put up is disgusting, but strangely apt.