Now I have a cold. Sore throat. Postnasal drip. No fun. I'm afraid I may lose my voice. You know how you can feel that non-existent ball in your throat, and then you can't talk anymore? The ball is there. I wonder if I can talk... Seems insane to talk to myself to find out. I'll talk to crashrose in a little while.
crashrose painted a beautiful thing last night. It kept her up half the night, and she turned the TV on or up when she came to bed. Could've killed her. But I was tired and sick, much like now, only with the prospect of sleep, so I could've killed almost anything.
Except NyQuil. I wouldn't kill NyQuil. Not even when I was an insomniac, sore-throated ball of rage.
I've only been up for an hour? Why does it feel like eighteen?