Because I've blown my nose more times than I've blinked.

Yes, hello, everyone.

Krista, here. Alive. Sort of.

I'm currently propped in front of the computer, seven used tissues splayed across the desk, one raw nose, a sweaty forehead and nothing but ill will toward whomever got me SICK.

This is mostly how my weekend played out: blowing my nose, coughing, whining, tears, nose-blowing, temperature-taking, coughing, crying, sweating, more Kleenex, slamming shots of NyQuil as if it were tequila, while subsequently downing mugs of hot green tea and wiping tears off the lenses of my glasses while pushing hairs off my sweaty forehead.


My temperature reached almost 101 degrees Saturday, as I sprawled motionless on the bed, sideways. I couldn't move. Didn't want to move. We had no Kleenex, we were OUT of toilet paper, so I turned toward napkins for my nose-blowing. The Fiance was out of town. I was left alone to my misery. Even The Cats wanted nothing to do with me. My generic cold medicine would not suffice. I was facing imminent death.

And to prove my illness was SO great nothing could stand in its way - I couldn't even READ. Not one word. It was too much work. I, who loves books more than I love breathing air, could not even open a book. Oh, the horror.

So I stewed in my misery, alone.

Until The Fiance came home that night with flowers, NyQuil, orange juice, a box of Kleenex and pizza. My hero. Of course, I just cried because, "I'm siiiiick. I haaaaate being siiiiiick." And I was sweating. And I hadn't showered. Or brushed my teeth. And I am completely aware that that's gross, thank you.

So I spoon-fed myself some pizza that I could not taste, sweat a little bit more, blew my nose 1,348 more times, and downed a double-dose of NyQuil as tears streamed down my cheeks because, seriously, have you tasted that shit? You may as well have been stabbing me in the aorta with a dull pencil.

Yesterday was much of the same, lightened to a less-severe degree, which brings me to today, where I'm currently hacking up yesterday's phlegm and blowing entire colonies of women and children out of my (very raw) nostrils.

There are currently 17 used tissues on the desk now.

Ugh. Make it stop. Happy freaking New Year to me.