Oooga flort

The scratchy throat has evolved into a stuffy nose and a throat where one side is sandpaper and the other raw skin. My head a slightly congested ball of small pain that is too tired to digest the printed word and too distracting to sleep. I lay in my bed as my torso gets too warm and my uncovered head and feet get too cold. I pull the blanet over my head until it gets too warm. I throw the whole thing off until I get chilled again. I get up and take a snort of the Ny-Quil that neither Wendell nor I can decide where it came from. Strange, that it should sit there so long, unclaimed and unopened until my summer cold.

Back in my room I turn the light back off and those stupid glow-in-the-dark stars try and cheer me up. I think the Ny-Quil is working because the stars have an almost three dimensional feel about them. Or I could just be exhausted. I put on a bootleg Bob Dylan concert to pass the time. This one is from 1999 and it's a soundboard recording. Bob's voice, which sounds like my throat feels, is eerily high in the mix and soothing like an exfoliating sandstone.

I think I sleep but I don't know. I wake and get a drink of water. Go to the bathroom. Gross. I do sleep this time and I dream of someone I hadn't seen in years that I loved once. I dreamed I was reading her blog and she was recalling a concert we had been to and she had nice things to say about us but it was vague and I think I was projecting...

I sleep again and wake up among cats, one by my head and the other curled up in the my legs. In my confusion I almost roll over the one curled in the crook of my legs. I think he left I can't be sure. Around 5 a.m. I hear a strange sound. Like a banging from the bathroom. I investigate and find a cat in the bathroom. He is hungry now and so is the other. I feed them and then go back to sleep until my alarm goes off.