the yuck report

Update from the land of gunk. My head feels like an ache-soaked sponge, there are huge cosmic thumbs pressing on my eyes and my face is pinched into a sour pucker of self pity. I'm fighting a strong urge to snarl and whine simultaneously. My bed looks like it is covered in flower petals, but on closer inspection sodden kleenexes have been flung randomly around the room. Extra-Strength Wretchedness has descended upon me. Strong drugs have been taken with no discernible results. This is the Superbowl Champion of colds.

Just now, in the middle of writing this, the phone rang. It was a tele-marketer mangling my name. My usual response is a terse-yet-polite request to put me on their do-not-call list. But today I paused—then let out a terrifying snot-inflected shriek and hung up.

And then I realized it was probably my doctor's office, calling to remind me that I have an appointment tomorrow...