My trash can is full of used tissues and I've got a large half a box of them sitting on my left. My throat is raw and food tastes funny. Even coffee tastes wrong, and that's saying something. Stupid cold. Stupid stuffy nose. Lousy fever.
I like Theraflu, which is the only cold medicine that comes close to working. But I don't like the strange dreams it gives me. Like the one last night about Solomon losing all of his hair. Or the one the night before that involved a serial killer and a closet. That left me shivering and softly head-butting my way into Gary's arms while listening to the very normal sounds of my house, which never really sleeps, just shifts with wind and cats arguing and dogs pacing from one sleep spot to another.
Logically speaking I know no one would survive long in our closets as they'd run the risk of suffocating in the toxic fumes of tennis shoes in the boys' rooms, or being crushed under the towers of storage containers full of Christmas ornaments and books in mine. Still, even after last night's dream about Solomon, it was sometime before I convinced myself that the branch rubbing against the north wall wasn't someone trying to file their way through the siding using an emery board, but I stayed awake just in case I was wrong. At two AM it seems criminals are capable of almost anything. At six, they are much more logical, and generally give up and go home, leaving me finally to sleep off the last of the cold medicine having thwarted them by just listening.
I'm off to bed now, sans cold medicine(aren't you relieved?)