I think we should replace the spirits and traditional monsters who are referenced in scary stories with the change-of-season virus. It's much more terrifying.
On Sunday, I thought I was just about free of the festering fingertips of whatever cold had me in its grip.
But when I spent 19 hours on Tuesday unconscious, or wishing I was unconscious, I had my doubts regarding recovery.
I've tried to reason with the bug. I've weakly pointed toward unfinished projects, unmailed items, and important dates on the calendar, but it hasn't made much of a difference.
This morning I made noises like the Tasmanian Devil as my body tried to clear my lungs and air passage. Instead of being saddened by this new state of phlegminess, I was encouraged. If it's finally in my chest, it means my body might actually be purging it from the system instead of letting it hide behind my kidney or whatever spot it's been lurking the last few months (where you always feel like you're about to get sick, then don't).
