And The Cold Does Not Falter

Here I am after 9 fucking days of this worst cold in the history of my personal universe. I swear, this is exactly what I feel and look like now and you don't even want to know what I sound like as I trundle wearily around the house trying to summon up the energy to get into the shower and get myself over to Lowes where I am going to by god buy a brand new washer and dryer so that I can bid farewell to the laundromat forever. Somehow, though, I can't seem to get out the door, probably because I have to cough up - redacted; you don't want to know what I'm coughing up and neither do I - and then make horrible glorp florp eeegghrr hrungh noises and glare at myself in the mirror and possibly, just possibly, pick a bit at the peeling chapped skin all around my nose, or what's left of my nose. It is just fun fun fun around here where we are busily reenacting Asheville's past as a grim 19th century tuberculosis sanitarium and at any minute I fully intend to put on some kind of scary 19th century outfit and fling myself across a chaise a la La Boheme, except that I can't get my Victorian clothes on over my giant tentacular self. Hrumph glorbe eeecklhrgjum.