Apparently I am a fifty-three year old menopausal woman. At least that’s what it feels like. I sweat and have hot flushes while doing absolutely nothing. I have the wrist strength of a fifty-three year old woman. All I need now is a uterus to go with it, and I would be set.
No matter how many eviction notices I have served mr virus and his family, they are determined to continue squatting in my chest.
I look forward to the mornings when they throw out all the gunk and goo on the yellowy green walls. But the afternoon, the walls are stripped bare, and the door bell is usually broken.
But tomorrow I’m of to see a professional. And a new round of extermination treatments may just be in order to send these guys packing.