Sick-o

Mom gently rapped at my closed door. I shut my eyes even tighter, half believing the "I can't see her, she can't see me" myth. But it didn't work. My squeaky,ungreased hinges creaked as Mom opened my door a crack. Peeking her head in, she asked "Are you doing any better?" I rolled over in bed and moaned. She was about to begin another well-meaning question, but my pathetic whining for mercy caused her to think otherwise. Mom pursed her lips, and held her hands up, palms facing me, as if to both protect herself and indicate her retreat. I had stomach flu, and I was absolutely disgusting--the woman wasn't a saint, and so she backed out of my room slowly. She probably went to disinfect another surface that I had touched, and probably mumbled some choice words about my less-than-sparkling personality. But I didn't care. I was sick and gross. So I pulled my laptop out from its hiding spot under the crocheted afghans and blankets lying on my bed--which I had shamelessly placed atop my cheap ACER PC when I heard my door hinges groan--and started yet another episode on Netflix.