I Hab A Gowd

I ab sowwy to wepowd dad I hab a gowd. A bad gowd. I'm mizabal. An I dnow I hab no bidniz compwainigh bud sdill, I'm mizabal. Weawy. *cough*

K, so I can type without the congestion, but that's pretty much what I sound like right now. And the strange thing is, I really don't feel all that sick. I feel gross, cranky, tired, and weak. No fever. Stuffy nose, and as everyone who loves me predicted, it went into my chest a little bit. Yeah, that's bad. But Ahmed pounced upon me with many preventatives early on, and it's NOT that bad.

Only it feels like it is even though I know it isn't. You know what I mean. You feel a bit like your head is inside a fishbowl. You think the cough is under control until you laugh, sigh, or somebody asks you to speak normally, and then it's hackcoughsorrydammithackhackcoughspew... whadjusayagain? Granted, as I am told about every five minutes, my lungs are always an issue and everyone tries very hard not to breath on me when they aren't feeling well. And I appreciate that.

I even appreciate the moderate, persistent wigging out as I wait for the cold to go away. I do. People love me and want me to be ok. And I will be even--

*gasp*

hackcoughspewcoughhackspewchokegarglecoughcoughcough

tually.