I don't like this tradition at all.

All right, who installed the golf ball in my throat and the colony of ents in my chest? Hoom, hooom. They are not only deep and rumbly, they are not at all hasty about departing. Someone ought to have told this virus that it was supposed to start packing up and leaving at this point, not settling in and declaring my lungs Passchendaele. Those of you with some notions of WWI battles will now have all the metaphor you need for how I woke up, and those of you without, well, trust me, you don't want to know, because ick, ick, ick.

The really frustrating thing about all this is that my cousin and her family are visiting at my folks' house, which is ten, fifteen minutes away, but I have no indication that I'm any less contagious than I was, so I don't feel like I can in good conscience go down and see them, or, more to the point, Grandma. The last thing Grandma needs is exposure to this crud just when she's starting to feel decent again. Harumph harumph. Baroom, hoom. Bah.

I mean, at least I have Christmas books to read, but. Grump grump cough cough bleh.