Don't shoot me. Or do. It doesn't matter at this point.

Caution: What you are about to read may be the most boring blog post ever written.

Still sick. I had an evening-long ordeal of going to the doc in a box. The first place I went was a fesering germ factory of sad little coughing babies. There were six people there ahead of me and I was there for over an hour. During that time, they did not call ONE patient. I never found out if they actually SAW people or not, because I gave up.

I went and got Pho, the magical Vietnamese soup that may be the best thing on earth. I was actually hoping it might instantly cure me of all ills. If you do not know Pho, go find some. Honestly. It will change your life.

My sister sent me a link to a blog a couple weeks ago where she thought the writer was so lame because she left her purse at the gas station and then she went on and on about it on her blog.

Guess what, Laura? I'm lame too, but in your honor I will just say "at the Vietnamese place." I had a good long laugh with the Vietnamese restaurant ladies about how lame I am. They found my lameness delightful. I pretended to, to get my purse back, all the while thinking "Can I get OUT of here now?"

Found another doctor, blah blah blah, got the prescription, went to the pharmacy have it filled. But of course the doctor's office staff hadn't given me my insurance card back. Minor panic, return trip to the doc office. Another point in an evening that was threatening to stretch into eternity.

Have I mentioned the traffic ticket yet? Oh yeah. I wanted to say "Officer, I don't really care if I didn't fully stop before turning right. MY HEAD IS SPLITTING OPEN!!" But of course I couldn't say that. Because I have laryngitis and can barely make myself understood, that's why. The universe siphons another $150 bucks or so from me that I apparently I don't need.

That's all. I'm done. Hot shower. Zithromax. Bed.