The doctor doesn't know what I've got, but says it will either go away on its own or blow up into something more recognizable in the next couple of days.
I wish I wasn't so spaced-out right now. I can hardly think straight.
I also wish Warren would listen when I say, "No, I really don't want to watch Matt Lauer's interview with Madonna." Instead, he comes in five minutes later expecting me to have it on my TV. UGH.
The last thing I want to do is watch someone my age who has achieved everything she's wanted to achieve (and much of what I've dreamed of achieving) in the entertainment field than I can ever hope to achieve when I'm sick in bed.