Of Painted Water (Logan Lerman Love Story)

I Die Painfully and Figuratively

I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT! I may have the lowest tolerance for discomfort in the whole fucking world.

I was beyond sick after that award show thing, I was actually more sick than I had ever been in my whole god damn life. Oh, and I was cursing like a drunk sailor/marine who had smoked half a truck-full of cocaine.

Not only was my head pounding to the extent that even the tiniest sliver of light and/or sound made me scream bloody murder, but my stomach was in knots, tossing and turning worse than any period cramps I had ever experienced.

And the worst part? I couldn't do a single thing about it! There wasn't anything I could do for my stomach, and despite the fact that I had guzzled half a gallon of water mixed with those dissolvable alka seltzer tablets that taste

like absolute shit.

I was stuck in my bed, my hair pulled back in a messy bun to get it out of my face, zero makeup, tissues littered across the bed, and half the blankets in the house spread across the room in my crazy hot to cold sickness.

One moment I felt like I had swallowed jalapeño seeds from hell's gardens, then another minute I was experiencing some serious chills, and not the good kind.

It was on again off again, back and forth in an unending circle of miserableness.

My throat was croaky, my lips were chapped, and I just all around felt like crying or dying.

Logan had tried to come see me, but I had thrown shoes at his head until he left, grumbling about the unappreciative-ness of all Baily's, and how we were probably going to live bitter lives because of it. I ignored him like I usually did, and screamed with my crackly voice for Devon to get me some water.

Mom had asked him to help me for the entirety of my sick days, and he had reluctantly agreed, thinking it would only be a day or two and that I only had a minor cold, requiring him to bring me cold medicine every couple hours or so.

Wrong. No, I was thriving in ordering him around, demanding he get me things and find ways to do difficult things for me.

Like when I told him that the outlet in my room wasn't working (all of the other outlets being used by other various appliances) and that I wanted to charge my computer.

I made him go grab eight extension cords from the garage, then hook them up to one another and the electrical outlet in the family room, just so that I could charge my device. Now, there are two very mean things that I did there.

One, was not telling him that the outlet in my room, right next to my bed, was functioning perfectly and could have easily powered my laptop.

Two, I paid Robin fifty bucks to sneak around the house, unplugging various extension cords from one another and tying them in knots to frustrate my brother.

So while Devon scratched his head and ran up and down the stairs, re-plugging the wires and running back up to check with me to see if the electricity was making it to my computer or not, Robin was staying out of sight, slipping down the staircase once he ran into my room to go wreak havoc on the downstairs portion of his cord line.

When he finally gave up, sitting in a sweaty heap on my carpet, Robin leaned into the room, against the doorframe with an unplugged wire in her hand, twirling it around easily with a mean smile on her face.

If I could laugh without puncturing my lungs at that point, I would have rolled out of bed and down the stairs.

"Something wrong," she said sweetly "Devon dearest?"

"NahIjustwannagoliedown." he gasped, crawling past her on his hands and knees, letting out a sort of whimper/scream when his hand hit a loose nail on one of the floorboards.