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Dear Universe,

I know you think you're really cute with the irony, the Murphy's law, and the other-shoes that drop, but I have to tell you that if the cramping, heartburn, and competition-level burping that is happening to me today is a sign that I'm coming down with the hideous stomach flu that is going around, I am not going to be a happy girl.

Look, I've already been through it with all three kids.  I do not need to experience it first hand.  I am all done.  Stick a fork in me (as long as it's clean and doesn't have any norovirus on it).

I do not have time.  I do not have patience.  I do not want.  I know that you think that since I caught up with the laundry, it's time to smite me (and really, what is the deal with every piece of laundry growing legs and heading straight for the laundry sorter the instant someone throws up in this house?  Is that strictly necessary?) but let me assure you that it is not that time.

Yes, yes, I know.  Some people have real health problems, and I dodged that bullet this week.  That does NOT mean you owe me.  Kapiche?  Go pick on someone your own size.  Like Particle Man.

It's going to be nice this weekend and I have a porch to paint.

Be well,
Amy