Everything changes when you’re ill, you know? Curled in the back of the car, with a thick scarf and a blackberry lollipop, watching the cars cruise along around me, and I suddenly realize that what the man in the van behind sees is a twentyish year old female snuggled up against a fluffy cushion with a lollipop in her mouth. And suddenly I feel small. Small and stupid. But then, do I care? My head is sending abort signals to my stomach, my throat and nose are refusing to cooperate, and behind my eyes a group of industrious little men are building up a great thumping pile of weight-soaked sponges that just sit. And seep an ache into my jaw and along my teeth. No, I do not care. Rather, I relish the childish lack of consideration for other’s opinion.
Besides. I like blackberry lollipops.