Dear Cold

You could have come anytime last week. You could have come on Thanksgiving, making dinner a bit awkward, but giving me three days of sitting at home on my ass to recover.

But when did you decide to come? Sunday night. Yes, Sunday night you started me on a downward slope of dozens of consecutive sneezes and disgustingly dripping nostrils.

I hoped, nay, I prayed that it was simply because it’s been getting a little chilly at night and I’ve got my heater turned way down to save money.

Then I woke up this morning, and because of you, I sounded like Elmer Fudd until almost noon. I walked around all day like my brain was made of Jell-o. I tried drowning you in orange juice last night and this morning, to no avail.

I had four days off in a row. And when do you come? When I have to work for five, when I do not have time for this bullshit.

You are a terrible, rude houseguest, Cold. And I hereby order you to get the fuck out, and take your friend Sinus Congestion with you.

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