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Apr. 6th, 2015 10:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeGiving the boyfiend the password to one of my computers is always fun because my passwords are not in any of the top ten spoken languages around the world. So it's always:
"What's your laptop password?"
"Horkityblargle."
"... That's not a word, that's a collection of letters."
"Honey, all passwords are a collection of letters. Mine are just more secure letters than most."
Ugh. So, I said the boy had a cough but it probably wasn't TB, and then he developed a fever over the weekend. Which still probably wasn't TB because it went up to a hundred and then broke, but I'm still going to quietly freak out until he gets a blood test at a doctor's office and it comes up negative. Fucking care facility not telling its staff that they have a person on the premises being treated for TB.
Extra bonus points for me slowly deteriorating and getting more and more tired over the course of the work day.
So. Tonight I have to get home, make dinner presumably for me and the boy unless he opts not to go to work, in which case he's on his own because he'll sleep through anything I make. Write like a madwoman from 7 to 8 so I can get my words down in time for podcasting at 8. Finish up with languages and physics and stretching afterwards because even if I'm probably not in any shape to exercise fully there's no reason I can't stretch, and do all the household chores because the boy is probably too sick to do them. This'll be a fun evening.
I've already told everyone at work I might fall over tonight and be out sick tomorrow, so at least there's that. If I see even a hint of fucking fever tonight, I swear to fucking god. The boy's been coughing up tiny gobs of ever so slightly not-normal-snot-color-and-consistency phlegm for three weeks, so we should have seen this coming, but I'm still going to murder someone for the perpetual plague hovering about my house. Do you know how many times I've washed the fucking bedding? Do you? We're approaching improper use of inverted commas level of rant.
"What's your laptop password?"
"Horkityblargle."
"... That's not a word, that's a collection of letters."
"Honey, all passwords are a collection of letters. Mine are just more secure letters than most."
Ugh. So, I said the boy had a cough but it probably wasn't TB, and then he developed a fever over the weekend. Which still probably wasn't TB because it went up to a hundred and then broke, but I'm still going to quietly freak out until he gets a blood test at a doctor's office and it comes up negative. Fucking care facility not telling its staff that they have a person on the premises being treated for TB.
Extra bonus points for me slowly deteriorating and getting more and more tired over the course of the work day.
So. Tonight I have to get home, make dinner presumably for me and the boy unless he opts not to go to work, in which case he's on his own because he'll sleep through anything I make. Write like a madwoman from 7 to 8 so I can get my words down in time for podcasting at 8. Finish up with languages and physics and stretching afterwards because even if I'm probably not in any shape to exercise fully there's no reason I can't stretch, and do all the household chores because the boy is probably too sick to do them. This'll be a fun evening.
I've already told everyone at work I might fall over tonight and be out sick tomorrow, so at least there's that. If I see even a hint of fucking fever tonight, I swear to fucking god. The boy's been coughing up tiny gobs of ever so slightly not-normal-snot-color-and-consistency phlegm for three weeks, so we should have seen this coming, but I'm still going to murder someone for the perpetual plague hovering about my house. Do you know how many times I've washed the fucking bedding? Do you? We're approaching improper use of inverted commas level of rant.