Let me get straight to the point. I. am. a. horrible. nurse. I would just as soon KILL you than nurse you back to health. Unless you're between the ages of newborn to five years old and have white blonde hair, or dark brown curly hair and big hazel, brown, or blue eyes. Then I don't mind. I will rock you and sing to you and tend to you gently and softly until the morning sun rises over yon hill.
You're how old? Sorry I've just pulled your life support.
Granny and Grandaddy, I've killed your child. I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't help myself.
*big sigh*
Poor Mr. Wonderful has been sick for a week. A WEEK. Do you understand what I'm saying? I ask you, Do you know what men are like when they are sick? (Sorry 'bout wrapping both hands around your throat just then and violently shaking you). I asked him nicely on day three to move to a nursing home but he wouldn't do it. By day five, I went to our liquor cabinet for a little relief. After searching frantically through every room in this house I came to the shocking realization THERE IS NO LIQUOR CABINET!
After sipping a bottle of Gatorade mixed with a little 'Old Bay' seasoning, I knew what to do.
Can you say pillow?! Psycho laughter is now merrily ringing through the halls of justice. What does that even mean? Don't ask me because I don't know! I 've obviously snapped.
It's day seven and he's sleeping quietly now, FOREVER. 'Glory glory hallelujah, glory, glory hallelujah...' she sang as she gently rocked back and forth.
The sound of his hacking cough just pierced my eardrum.
$50 bucks says he won't go to the doctor tomorrow...$500 says if he doesn't, I'm gonna kill him. For real this time.
