The floor next to my bed has become a biohazard; a toxic wasteland of used tissues, obstructing the view of the carpet below. Every passing minute the layer of white grows deeper and deeper, leaving my nose red and chafed. I tried putting thick hand lotion on it last night, but it only lasted about ten minutes before it was all blown off again.
I inhale deeply, my lungs thick with mucus and crying for oxygen, but the forced air brings on a coughing fit that leaves me wincing and clutching my throat with a cold hand in hopes that it might bring down the swelling I can feel growing in my trachea.
Two Advil found their way into me, summoned to fight the headache that I can't quite identify: sinus or fragile skull; I'm not sure. Yesterday I tried combining one Advil and one Wal-phed (for which I had to sign a waiver promising not to make meth), but I didn't feel a difference in snot-output, so I gave up.
Today is Day Three of my first cold of the season. No idea where I got it from since I'm often quite isolated, but colds are funny that way - if they want to find you, they will. Now I lie in my bed, mind foggy and eyelids drooping, and contemplate the fact that I need a job, though I'm inwardly glad that I'm allowed a guilt-free sick day today.
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