The Plague

I am no longer sick.

I'm quite excited about this, because I am not a fan of my body's platform on disease. Most of the time, I don't have anything to worry about outside of self-inflicted injury, chapped lips and sporatic allergies. Then, once or twice a year, my body basically decides to reject all of my white blood cells and antibodies at once, and posts an "Open House! Today Only! Bring Friends!" sign on my head, at which point a collection of virulent and fighty diseases come by to scope out the place and see if there's any good stuff to steal.

Oh. My. GOD you guys.

I had a sore throat, which, okay, but I also had a cold and a cough, which as many of you may know, means that every time you use your throat-and-nosal regions for coughing or sneezeing, it feels like someone is trying to rip the lining of your esophagus directly out of your body like some kind of messed up torture porn movie. This year's version also had some exciting mucus features, so every now and then I would start coughing, become totally unable to stop, choke for an exciting couple of seconds, and then expel something that looked eerily like a member of the slug family into whatever unfortunate cup or sink was on hand.

Yes, I realize that is disgusting but frankly you didn't have to experience it so I don't care.

Needless to say, I also spent the last couple days sounding like an eighty-year-old, thirteen-pack-a-day-smoker. It was a charming time for all involved. That all being said, I am announcing this illness now so that you can all write Speed and I permanently off your social calendars for the next three months. You see, we believe that SHARING IS CARING, and thus when one of us contracts the Annual Disease Fest, we pass it joyfully along from one to the other, back and forth, for a good couple months.

At least we're stocked up on cough drops.