Sniffly, coughy, phlegmy. Laryngitis.
Bloated, bleeding, soaked through the tampon and panty-liner. Period.
Number-crunching, phone-answering, eyes-burning. Workaholic.
Rex is about to die. He doesn’t move. He lays on his side at the bottom of his little tank. I expect to see him floating on top when I come home from work one evening. My poor fighter fish has no more fight left in him.
I feel the same way. I’m sick and bloody and tired. I stare at passengers as they concentrate and read on the bus. How can they do that? I just want to close my eyes and rest.
My plants die. I expect them to die. I kill plants–not intentionally. My fighter fish is the only living, breathing thing that has lived with me and survived. Rex is the only guy I didn’t expect to leave me. Don’t die Rex.