Why are parental units capable of being so ominous?
It took a 5 minute convo with pater, who attempted to scare me into getting my flu shot (which fell onto very deaf and now very ringing ears) for me to end up getting it? Full force mind you. I woke up the morning after the celebrated return of one of my faves only to realize that the old wives tale about wet hair in below zero weather was probably true. Throw in a complete lack of scarf and a semblance of pants and you're pretty much begging to be smitten with the nouveau plague.
Had a new Shopper's not literally sprouted up under my building, I would've probably resorted to chewing garlic and sucking on lemons because I'll be damned if I even attempt to engage in that thing called "winter" just for meds.
I have spent the last three days indoors to the point of delirium. I've had heavily self-medicated conversations with my cat (who knows nothing about the coalition apparently), yell-croaked at lame commercials on T.V. and won a hazy game of Clue which I haven't played since I was in fifth grade or so.
The one perk of this phlegmy unpleasantness is that I've surprisingly been inspired to write more. I guess there's something very Dickensian about feeling like you're on your death bed that inspries maudlin, and usually contrite prose. I won't share what I've written lest it be a far cry from what I currently think it is (Poe meets Sedaris), and will reconsider it when my eyes are no longer half-cast and my viens aren't filled with cough syrup.
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