Those times.

[ Mood: Sick ]
[ Currently: Eating turkey. ]
Woe is to be me. I am a child castaway in the middle of the sea, with no detritus to latch on to in hopes of rescue. I am a spring flower in the jungle, doomed to wither into pale and gloomy death in the shade of my taller brothers. I am a poem composed in the darkest hour of night on a subway ride home, doomed to be forgotten before my codas can be put from mind to ink to paper.

I am sick.

Unnnnngh. Is my nose runny? I can’t breathe out of it, but I can’t feel my face enough to tell whether it’s got snot all over it… I just touched it. Yes. Ew.

Where’s some paper? All I can find near me is some… old memo… But its used. And it’s all hard, and pointy. My nose is CHAPPED. My lips, too. Unnnnnnghhhhahahnn… It hurts to open my mouth to cough. My lips are all crusted together and dry.

I’ve got some phlegm in my throat and it won’t come out. Mhhhhh! driving me crazy. I think I’m gonna throw up if I try too hard to get out. Oh crap. Don’t think about throwing up, don’t think about throwing up, don’t think about here comes the mouth condensation. My stommy hurts. Throat trying to swallow itself

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