Even on my best days I’m kind of a crybaby. For reasons I cannot explain, crying is my go-to form of expressing emotion — sad, happy, angry, afraid — you name it, I cry. I would be more concerned about this if it wasn’t something I’ve done all my life. I’m just wired for tears. My mom always chalked it up to me being “sensitive.” Mother knows best, right?
Yesterday I came down with some version of the plague, the main symptom of which involves an angry, rabid chipmunk taking up residence in my chest. Other symptoms include a sort of fever that makes me feel like my eyes are boiling in their sockets and the kind of pressure in my head that makes me wince when I cough.
It has not be pretty. But mostly because I can’t seem to stop crying about everything. To wit, a short list of things that have made me cry thus far today:
- The flashback on “Roseanne” where all the factory workers punched out in protest over something I cannot remember
- Darlene’s premature labor
- When Roseanne held her granddaughter for the first time
- When Darlene named her little baby who they didn’t think would make it
- When the scientist’s family had to go live in Mrs. Edward’s garage on “V”
- When the black doctor died on the original V
- When I tried to take a nap and couldn’t find any good book to read