[why'd you only call me when you're high?] - [arctic monkeys]
0:56 ——•———————— 3:26
↺ << ll >> ⋮≡
ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ: ————•
up next ;;
[feel better] - [penelope scott]
club rules
#2: thomas, no.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆.
Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic. He wasn't dying, he was just feeling—really, really, really like shit.
He was swaddled in his blankets, and yet he still felt cold. His head ached, a persistent migraine that throbbed constantly. And worst of all he kept coughing. And sneezing.
No, no, no. It couldn't be. It was summer. Wasn't there some kind of special rule that protected people from getting sick during summer?
Rationally he knew that immunity to ailments just because of a season was preposterous, but he had to blame his sickness on something.
"Aughhhhh," He groaned. "Why meeeeeeeee?"
He probably needed some medical attention. Or at least a temperature check. But his housekeeper was arguably unsympathetic when he went to her for help. Besides, asking for help would be a show of weakness. He could do it himself. Maybe.
Heaving himself off the bed, he dropped onto the ground with a thump. Cold, cold, cold. He shivered. Strange...his neck had begun to sweat. But why was he still freezing?
Wait! Behold, a great idea! He had a great idea!
"I have a great idea," he mumbled. "I'm going to call...the most responsible person I know! Obama!"
He felt around the bundle of blankets for his phone, eventually finding it in his pocket.
Huh. He didn't have Obama in his contacts.
Aw, man.
"Welp, guess I'll call the second most responsible," He scrolled to the Y section and clicked the landline number for the Young house.
