Here's the thing.
If one was going to be this ill, wouldn't it make sense for the universe to at least grant one the ability to look fragile and pretty while feeling like absolute crap? I mean, just as a balance kind of thing. Give a girl a break. If she's horking up some serious toxic waste every time she tries to delicately cough and it comes out sounding like some kind of rabid, barking dog... if she's cold and hot and cold and hot and frigidly blue and miserably sweaty because of a temperature that goes up and down like a freakin' preacher's daughter... Wouldn't it be fair, after all of that? Seriously, wouldn't it be just a tiny piece of sweet justice that while I'm feeling and sounding that miserable, I'd at least get a lovely rosy hue, and a gleaming waterfall of hair? That even though my bowels have turned to molten lava, and I've got a phlegm ball the size of Michigan firmly lodged in my throat, I can still sit up in bed with my hands resting weakly but attractively in my lap, and know that I look... fetching? Because, I swear to God, every time I catch site of my reflection, I make myself sicker, I'm telling you. It's that bad.
At least the fever has broken. It looks like I'm going to live. I swear, when I get my appetite back, I'm totally scarfing down something bad for me!
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