Nobody, other than medical professionals, wants to hear about it when you feel bad. And even doctors wouldn’t care to listen if they weren’t getting paid. I know that. But I need someone to commiserate with. Surely there’s another allergy or flu sufferer out there somewhere who’ll humor me.
I’m drowning in my own body fluids, throat hurts, and I’m blowing bubbles out of my nose. I’ve got three-day-old gel in my hair. All I want to do is go back to bed, but some nasty internal voice that insists I’m being a slug anytime I’m napping during daylight hours prevents me from this.
“No,” my subconscious insists. “You’re supposed to be working on your screenplay, today! You promised yourself another 10 pages.” Probably not going to happen, unless I want ten pages of, She sneezes, then coughs and reaches for a tissue. The judge shifts his posture, canting his body farther from the witness.
Yeah, I’m supposed to be writing a court scene. The way I’m feeling, right now, I’d probably write in some goofball with an automatic weapon.
“Discipline!” yells my obnoxious guide. “Quit being a slacker. Stop blogging and get to it!” Man, I hate this nag.
Free muse to good home. Air delivery. Excellent voice, pushy condition. Owner no longer willing to forego sleep.