Singing the URTI blues

[khaosworks]

My throat feels like sandpaper, I'm coughing like the percussion section during a Duke Ellington gig, my nose is a dripping tap in the night that won't quit, my sinuses feel so clogged I should be talking like Don Corleone, the scout parties of a major off the Richter scale headache are poking around the fringes of my brain, and my imagination may soon conjure up a fever.

I am not going to work tomorrow. And probably not Friday either. I will be trudging down to Dr Bernard's across the street instead. I've told my Court Officer to tell tomorrow's parties not to show up and I've brought paperwork home to hopefully do if the medication doesn't turn me into a zombie.

I hate being sick. Hate it hate it hate it.

Comments

[radiofreerlyeh.livejournal.com]

Just remember, to the little microscopic flora and fauna causing this, you are the greatest mass murderer in their (actually VERY) brief existence. As your body's immune system kicks in, you'll be killing them off in the millions. Doesn't help the symptons I know, but does wonders towards a sense of superiority. You could dance on their graves...but that's inside you...which is rather sick if you think about it, so just ignore that last bit.

Cthulhu Na Fthagn

[piqument.livejournal.com]

What a beautiful way to put it.

Wandered into this journal through a community group, by the way.