I have a miserable cold. One of those kind of colds were you are so stuffed up you can only breath through your mouth and you feel like you have cotton stuck in you teeth.
I woke up this morning feeling like someone beat on me all night and sat on the side of the bed hoping that I might just die and get it over with. Then, I looked out the window.
The Catalpa trees behind the house were holding on to what few yellow leaves still clung to them....
I was on my feet by now, moving from window to window. Trying to accumulate enough reasons to make it worth being alive when my brain felt like it was draining out of me with all the other debris. I hate being sick.
I poured a cup of coffee. The Prospector asked how I was feeling. I considered this question. I replied, "Better, I guess.", as one of the nerve cells from my brain slid down my throat and sent me into a coughing attack. I hate being sick.... Why do I have to be sick. Where did this come from. What did I do to deserve this. I feel so awful.
"Well," said the Prospector, "you'll feel better in a few days. Just take it easy."
Well, that went well. Not a lot of sympathy there and the dogs are taking there morning nap oblivious to my pain.
I sat down on the edge of the couch, between the two dogs, sipping my coffee and feeling very sorry for myself and that is when it happen.