Sickness. I have found you out.
You are the unwanted guest(s) that come around at least once a year. The cousins of cousins whose names you don't know until you've seen their face.
They come at least once a year and usually you know their coming, but you pray to L. Ron Hubbard that their car broke or that they don't have the money for a trip this year due to mass layoffs at lemme think... Harvey's, work.
But alas! This is not the case, and now you're stuck at home all day with Harvey and what's her face (is it Lily?... no, Liz... I think it's Leanne). You make meals only to have
them eat it and whisper under their breath.
"I don't think this chicken is done"
"Is it rude to ask for
more salt?"
"YES IT IS LINDSAY, OR LORI, OR WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS! LET ME CHECK, BUT I THINK I ONLY HAVE ENOUGH SALT LEFT FOR YOU TO RUB INTO THE PAPER CUTS I'M ABOUT TO GIVE MYSELF."
You've reached your boiling point.
If you'll allow me to conciously slide out of my metaphor momentarily this bold text would be the part of your illness where it's 4 in the morning and you can't decide whether to burn the 13 comfortors your under or jump into an ice bath with Stanley Kubrick and cut your losses.
The light at the end of the tunnel is that Harvey and, let's call her "Ratface", have a dog and they feel bad leaving him/her alone for too long so they leave. And with the help of a few
Advil Liquigels tm. your life is back to normal.
