Aaaaaaaaarrrghhh. I thought I had caught the Man-flu when a couple of days ago I started to feel feverish and had a very sore throat. I was lying in bed moaning and whining while Jon was looking after me like a stewardess at Thai Air.
Well, it's been all down hill from there and my fever turned out to be nothing less than frickin' fullblown ebola! I'm in bed not knowing whether I am Anna 26 or the dry and broken birdsnest (!) that I've been dreaming I was for the last two nights. During which (i.e. the nights) I've lost about half of my bodyweight through some severe perspiration. I'm pretty sure that some mad scientist could probably create a doppelganger of me from all the biblical proportions of sweat that's been absorbed by my matress and sheets. Nice!
OK, so it's not really ebola, my best friend was like "But Anna, you don't really have ebola, do you?". Aaaha ha ha ha! But I'm so bloody ill I can hardly get out of bed. And I don't even want to. You know it's really bad when one doesn't even have the wish to jump out of bed and try some chins. Oh my god that's sounds soo peachy. Almost as wholesome as the all-american cheerleaders that have been entertaining me today on 'So you think you can dance' between fainting into feverdreams and trying to study some spanish anatomy terms.
But I have had some frontseat tickets to watching my supersexy husband do weighted chins. That made some blood rush to my head before I dozed off again dreaming that my womb was tumbleweed.
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