Hey, remember when I could breathe out of my nose? And talk for more than two sentences without coughing uncontrollably? Ah, those were good times.
This is total bullshit, people. The timing really couldn’t be worse. Today is my dear mother’s birthday (I would do a birthday tribute, but there’s no way I could sum up my mom in one post. Plus, she doesn’t read this.) and Dave is whipping up a feast unlike any other. As of now it’s uncertain if I will be a.) awake and able to partake and b.) able to taste anything should I be able to rally.
Oh, and there’s this thing called “Christmas” this week. Heard of it? The stores have been advertising it since August. Anyway, I had kick-ass plans in the Bay Area to see my dad and the fam, Elisabeth and HER family, and various other awesome friends who are in town. I have been looking forward to the gifts, eggnog (and Bushmills, oh the Bushmills!), wine, laughter, chubby baby hands, and time with loved ones. But I’m pretty sure no one really wants to be around me at the moment. It’s like having Amy Winehouse over: I’m either drugged up and incoherent and passing out at random, OR I’m freaking out, looking for more drugs, anything to make me feel better. Just substiture “Alka Seltzer cold medicine” for “heroin” in my scenario, OK? Being in this state makes things like operating a car damn near impossible, what with the matter of needing to be not asleep.
Silver lining: my voice is starting to take on a sexy, smoky quality. So, I might start up a phone sex service for the next week to bring in some extra cash. We’ll see how many people have a coughing fetish.