My throat feels like it's cemented shut.
A trickle of water is all I can tolerate, and only if I let it slide down, rather than actually trying to swallow it. I'd write more, but forcing you to read it would mean you might catch whatever I've got.
I love you all. Pray for me. Failing that, send me chocolate and beautiful naked forms to dance for me. Or reruns of The Wedding Story and Trading Spaces.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to curl up in the fetal position under 14 blankets, and pretend that I look as good as Meg Ryan did when she had that cold in You've Got Mail, and Tom Hanks came and fell in love with her sniffling, sneezing self.
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