I had the flu once and couldn’t leave my room for two days.
While I enjoyed not having to sit through droning lectures,
talk to people,
or make my own food,
I was ecstatic when good health rescued me from my plush white walled prison.
I’ll accept any imagery your brain draws from my description back there.
I however did not go crazy during my sickly tenure. I could go where I wanted when I wanted, long before confinement had me teetering on the edge.
Years later, this thing named Hurricane Harvey was born and my mind was tested in an annoying way.
So listen, Dictonary.com defines “cabin fever” as a state characterized by anxiety, restlessness, and boredom arising from a prolonged stay in a remote or confined place.
Basically me… If I were a state of mind. Hm. You get what I’m saying.
Sleep isn’t marked present as often as it should be, my anxiety is dialed up to an unproductive number, and I can only do the same activities so many times a day.
If depression decides to join the soiree, I might grab this giant cupcake float and take my chances. Popeye the Sailor Woman in this thang.
I detest this email about what Anne’s Pretzel is offering, or my Google app telling me how long it would take for me to drive to work. I. Don’t. Want. To. Know.
Anywho, let’s just say I have a new found respect for soldiers that live in submarines. Not a respect like, “Poor you; stuck in a metal sandwich.” No. It’s more like, “I feel you, man. Call me if you need to talk.”
I jest, but I digress
I’ll not be waiting the next storm out. I’ll be packing my things and temporarily taking residence in a new city.
This chizz is for the fowl.