Do you want to know what's worse than eating delicious food you can't taste? Oh. Wait. NOTHING. Nothing is worse. Except maybe eating a live hissing cockroach for money, but whatever.
So I'm back at work. I've finally come to the conclusion that I can only lie stagnant in the same spot for so long (four days to be exact), stewing in my own filth and misery. And Kleenex. Except now I'm at work coughing up yesterday's orange juice and leaving brain matter on the tissue. And I CAN'T taste my FOOD.
I made dinner last night. My first real, home-cooked, fabulous dinner. Chicken Cordon Bleu. I even pounded out the chicken breasts and rolled them up with ham and Swiss cheese, and made my favorite cream of chicken, mayonnaise, curry powder and lemon juice sauce to go with it. It was beautiful. I took pictures. The Fiance was proud. But I COULDN'T TASTE IT.
And right now? I can't taste my salt and vinegar potato chips. Or my peppermint tea. And my coworkers? They want to slap the bitch that won't quit blowing her nose and coughing up colonies of Ebola and norovirus. (And hello, that bitch would be me).
I want my bed back. And my taste buds back. And to the next person who catches this illness (read: The Fiance), I am so sorry. You can have my first-born child.