Gargle With Hot Water And Salt

For those of you who don't know that I hate having a cold, I suggest reading one of my older posts explaining my feelings towards the common cold in what you might call detail. Here it is.

What I'm currently suffering from is a fever which was started by a sore throat which I caught from god-knows-where. And I hate it. Yesterday my throat was miserably sratchy and it hurt when I swallowed. It was horrible. Saliva was painful to swallow so I had to keep spitting and/or letting the saliva remain in my mouth which made me look like a retarded kid. Alright, I'm sorry; that was graphic and you'll be pleased to know that I'm exaggerating.

But I decided it was no big deal. In fact, I decided to go ahead and buy some art supplies and make an oil painting. I finished it in around an hour. It looks like a retarded monkey or a 7 year old tripping on LSD might have painted it. I attribute that to the delusional state my throat put me in. Who am I kidding? Here, I'll give you a picture of it.

For those of you who are concerned, you'll be happy to know that my throats much better. On the negative, it's been exchanged for a fever, a headache, sleeplessness and a disinterest in everything. I'm actually writing this blog piece by piece because if I go on for more than one para, my headache kicks in and the multi-coloured dancing squirrels start playing monopoly on my dresser again.

You want to know how I feel? I feel like I've been hit by a train. Not just any train, the Shatabdi Express at its peak velocity. After that, Lady Gaga kicked me onto a pile of mud, where a bunch of pigs pointed and laughed at me. After that, a Backstreet Boy came around and blew a vuvuzela in my ear. That's how I feel. Oh, and after that, Dick Cheney came by to rob me of my will to live.

I've been trying to sleep for hours. Et tu, Sleep?

Yes, I have personified Sleep because I consider him one of my dearest friends who takes me to wonderful lands where I am happily 4-timing Zach Braff, Lee DeWyze, Edward Maya and Jesse Metcalfe. Also, my relationship with Kunal Kapoor is on the pipeline.

But no, none of that drowsy goodness. I can't read, I can't watch the moving people on the television, I don't feel like cooking, my house is a mess and I'm walking around looking like one of those watchmen (No, not the cool ones like Rorschach or Silk Specter) who wears their blanket as a garment.

I'm not happy.