Bubble Girl.

My daughter is sick. My husband is sick. I am currently sequestered upstairs, a protective circle of Emergen-C packets and zinc lozenges placed carefully around me.

Shel Silverstein is picking up what I’m throwing down.

BACK, VILE GERMS!

It’s like I can hear the Jaws theme from far away. Unnngh.

NO, GERM SHARK. I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT.

I’m normally the one that gets sick first, so this feels wrong. I don’t want to get sick, but at the same time, I’m worried that there’s some foreboding reason I’m not already sick.

HA.

Oh, sweet Anxiety, you’re jealous because Depression was getting so much attention last month. I see that now. You’re adorable. Feel free to flip on my low tire pressure light in the car tomorrow, or have several unknown numbers start calling me. You’ll be right back in the pole position. The election is making sure I don’t forget you, trust me.

Lest you think I’m alone in my space, worry not. My wickedly angry uterus is here to keep me company. Good times.