Three Thirty

It's the middle of the night. I don't have an interesting story. Just typing on my phone at three thirty hoping I don't die without some record of my odd death. Write a poem about me if I do. She was a brave lass....

I woke up with an itchy arm. A very itchy can't scratch enough until I have a bloody stump arm. And I try to ignore it until my mind starts to wonder and I've contracted some horrifying ailment seen only on campy medical dramadies.

So I get David to turn in the light. David. David. No not the overhead the lamp. No don't get up just turn on the light I need to see if I still have an arm. I relay the above paragraph to a still asleep David.

Might as well mention that when the light comes on I see King Rigby has negotiated a spot the length of my pillows and I have spilled over into the middle pressed against David. We are essentially sharing a twin mattresses at this point.

Think I might as well pee. In the bathroom light my arm is fairly red, probably not a flea bite or anything harmless. Maybe it is SARS or a flesh eating bacteria. Can't tell if it is swollen cause I'm so dang squishy. Why am I so squishy? Maybe my over-squishiness has something to do with my impending demise.

The great hunt for Benadryl commences. I grab a zantac for heartburn, what sorcery is this? See how fast I'm deteriorating?

I'm writing in bed. Fearing I could slip into anaphylactic shock and no one would notice. Oh of course David fell asleep and was snoring the instant after his head hit the pillow.

Check on me later.
Uhhhhh (sleep grunt)
Don't let me die.
Uhhhhh
Did you hear me? I could have been bitten by an Amazonian poisonous tree frog. David?