The English language has failed me, again. Because, you see, I am sick. And tired.
I do not want to be something so wretchedly mundane. Not sick, and tired. Seriously, either sick or tired would be more than enough.
But.
I am sick, yes, a nasty little summer-cold bug has for several days made me its plaything, a human hacky sack at the rough mercy of a racking cough, a Beetlejuice-voiced fomite factory spewing out product at full tilt.
I am indeed also tired, absolutely; exhausted, even. In large part because I am, y’know, sick.
Too, I am utterly sick of being so blasted tired. And I am so very much tired of being sick. I am, as is way too clichéd for me to comfortably say, sick and tired of being sick and tired.
So I ask you, oh language I am beholden to, because I am too stupid or lazy to master another, could I not be some other combination involving these two supremely lousy things? Must it always be that if I am sick, that I must also be tired?
Couldn’t it be that I am instead sick and … ?
>>> Roguishly gallant, offering my last clean, dry tissue to another runny nose in need, even as I sneeze robustly upon them. “Spreading the love,” I will say. “Spreading the love.”
>>> Modestly resilient, falling-down ill, but then forcing myself back up, mostly, to advance a few paces and then … fall back down again.
>>> A bit peckish, because short of hurling, I’m-a gonna have me that last piece of Boston cream pie? So is there any Boston cream pie?
Seriously, I would really love a slice of Boston cream pie. Or a whole Boston cream pie. Because sick or no, that’s some damn fine pie. Though it really is much more of a cake, isn’t it?
But I digress.
From the other side, perhaps I could be l, if I must be tired … ?
>>> Loquacious and tired, a veritable chatty dingbat, which may/may not be that much different than how I am now, though at least this way there’s the built-in excuse.
>>> Resplendent and tired, because fabulousness cares not on whit about fatigue.
>>> Ersatz and tired, because while I am not faking the bone-aching weariness, I am faking pretty much everything else. It’s my MO, really. Truth? Oh, no, really, I just couldn’t! I’m rather full, you see. A bit too much delicious Boston cream pie …
But no, as we all know. Sick, and tired. Hack, ache, sick, sick. And tired, tired, tired.
So I am going big here instead. I am opting out entirely. I vow now to be, just picking from the lists above, resplendent and, let’s say, roguishly gallant, a dazzling scoundrel, opening doors for others with flourish, my shirt starch-sharp as I bow, my ruby slippers all a-twinkle, bestowing French phrases in greeting that imply something robustly off-color.
Ces pantalons me donnent envie de vous étreindre de l’arrière!
Until I cough, and sneeze, and wheeze, and collapse into a puddle of wearied Frankishness upon the floor. And then, who’s kidding who here?
Sick. And. Tired.
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