I am dying.
Sure, we're all dying from the moment we draw our first breath, blah blah and blah. And I don't wish to alarm all my dear reader, but I fear I suffer from The Cold of Death.
It's tremendously unfair and rude, too, because this is my second cold in a month-ish. I blame the little people, of course. Those wretched little people with their immature immunization systems and their germy, sticky ways. They touch everything, they think nothing of sneezing in your face or coughing in your ears, they insist on breathing ... o, little people! It's a fucking wonder Keebler can keep their shift workers churning out product.
Why I am convinced this cold shall kill me: I cannot breathe.
I took nighttime remedy last night and it not only failed to decongest me, well, that was the most important demand I think, and it failed. I couldn't breathe from my nose (preferred 24-hour method) and then the mouth-breathing was difficult. Left with no other orifice from which to draw life-sustaining air (that I could think of or get to work properly) I fell asleep awkwardly (sitting up, kinda) and imagining my death and how sad it would be when my corpse would finally be found. Plus, the Person Designated With Removing Potentially Tragically-Embarrassing Items Upon My Death lives far away ... too far to help in such a situation. So.
Here it is, early evening, and already I've got the labored breathing mouth thing happening.
I just wanted to warn you.
Take care and I love you. Your Christmas present was about to be ordered, sorry. If you wish, you may choose a gift from my nightstand.