Today proved to be very tiring. I think my legs are still throbbing a bit because of it. Goddamn cold-and-flu season. Daniel got sick on Friday, so my mom set up an appointment with his pediatritian today. Unfortunately for my exersice-deprived behind, we had to go walking because my dad took the family truck to work.
The entire day, Daniel's been upset and cranky. And I forgot to take my antidepressant as well, so the constant complaining made me cranky. He would keep insisting that we wiped his nose, since it's so clogged up. He won't touch any food, out of fear that he'll end up puking it out (he had a little incident with his bottle). The only thing we could get him to take was Gatorade and fluids.
And I had to get some shots today; bit last-minute to Daniel's checkup. This may not be the best place to say it, but I have a fear of needles. Been like that since I was a kid, or rather, it started when I was a kid. You'd think something so innocent-looking wouldn't hurt.
The family finally gets back home after five hours out on the street. I don't know how people can take long periods of activity. I still have to read a book for English by Wednesday, but I can't even get past one chapter without putting it down because I hate it. It's such a depressing story, too. It's about the life of an orphan from childhood to adulthood, and all his misfortunes. What the heck was Charles Dickens thinking when he wrote it?
Oh, wait. His life and that of his time period. Kind of makes you thankful that we live in a time where you can do things with ease, doesn't it. Even so, that's no reason to pick on an innocent little boy. Why is it that the most remembered writers are always the ones who write really dark things?
Still, you can't have a good story without some kind of conflict. It's like eating pizza every day; it's good the first time, then it gets stale, then you feel like chucking it out the window the next time you see it.