Really, what is phlegm?
One day, I'm dry un-runny, and the next day, my body turns into a mucous factory.
Mucous. Phlegm. Is there a difference?
God, I've been awake since three thirty this morning. Evidently, I'm smart enough to wake myself up when breathing is no longer an option.
My eyelids are made of stone, and my corneas are covered in sandpaper. My lips are dry and chapped because I've been breathing through my mouth, and my nose is raw from being wiped and blown and sniffled. I think I'm getting a cold sore, so I've been applying Zovirax every few minutes in an alarming obsessive-compulsive manner.
I don't have swag for JournalCon yet. I don't have shoes for the wedding yet. I've 19 massive approval returns that I've got to process for English Company Canada, and I don't how or when I'm going to do that. My in-tray is now at paramount levels, a status that's been pretty much permanent since last spring. It's cold outside, and there isn't anyone in this world, aside from Ewan McGregor, whom I fancy enough to even have dinner with.
I do however have a choreographed cha cha routine that kicks some severe arse, especially when I consider what it will look like in That Dress, set to the Smooth tones of Rob Thomas and Carlos Santana. I'm getting new hearing aids tomorrow which will enable me to be sparkly and alive again, as being able to carry on a conversation is a fabulous thing. I'm going to Austin in two weeks! The mucous will go away.
Right. I've got to blow my nose and stare blankly at my computer screen.
Have a lovely Friday, beauties. If you're sick, feel better. If you're not sick, well, bully for you.
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