I hate being sick. More than hate. I detest it. I loathe not feeling 100% and capable. So therefore I moan and groan and grumble, and thus make those around me just as miserable. And yet, somehow, my smiling Patrick looks at me with love and worry, and continues to bring me tea and herbal remedies. Maybe a dash of whiskey here and there to send me to sleep with the chamomile. How did I get this lucky?
A swift kick of fate, I assure you. I did nothing to deserve one so noble and kind. Someone who looks at me with the deepest devotion that stirs within me a knowledge that I will never be alone again. I thank God for sending him into my life, or perhaps for allowing me to stumble into his.
The sickness makes me mushy. Forgive my rambles.
Jarrett, my darling, are you warm in your Floridian existence, forever protected from the Tennessee winters? Send me some sunshine, honey, and hurry it up. You mustn't steal it all away like this. Your Royal Messenger deserves more, Master of All... Now there are some old names. Drudging up the past. High school was ages ago... drama club and middle school even further away. And do you remember Bobby Ray? Ancient history.
My mind is wondering and wandering now, my dears. Perhaps I will allow sleep to take me for a few hours. Then I can awake to write more. The Tale of the Departed Duck must be told. Please remind me.