As you probably gathered from my recent I-despise-abominate-and-abhor-nyquil post, I'm sick. It started out as drainage, that lovely occurrence which results in having a rotten egg-esque residue in your throat all the time, and all your food tasting like pig slop rejected by the pigs.
It then progressed to a sore throat, which involves setting personal records for how long you can hold the spit in your mouth since swallowing is like gulping down flaming swords.
And at last this pleasant lapse of my immune system bestowed on me The Cough.
I haven't actually hacked up any of my intestines yet, but it's been very, very close a few times.
My kind sisters, whose purposes were no doubt to encourage and cheer me, agreed yesterday that I sounded like some tuberculosis patient from the movie "Tombstone." Oh, goody! Just what I've always dreamed of! It isn't every one who reaches that height of achievement.
All I hope is that my immune system will get with the game by Emily's wedding, because coughing in time to Canon in D isn't my idea of a good time. And I'm pretty sure no one else would appreciate it either.
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