I am experiencing the mother of all colds at the moment.
Of course, this writing can't possibly express my little piece of reality. Right now, I'm lumbering around the house in a half-daze, slurring my words and occasionally blowing my nose with a piece of sodden tissue paper. It's not good for my disposition in any way.
It hasn't been good for my writing, for that matter: Seeing that I have to grab at the tissue box around once every fifteen minutes, I tend to lose my concentration very often. That makes this a bad time for fiction and essay pieces, and an even worse time for computer games.
I remember being a very sickly kid, actually. I was one of those third-graders who constantly ran into every casual disease in the medical books. This has had interesting consequences on my adult life, in that I find myself almost invulnerable to a lot of the stuff going around. When the viruses do manage to strike home, though, they hit pretty hard -- just like they're doing right now, I suppose.
Of course, knowing all this doesn't do anything for my current situation. Seeing that mankind has never been able to develop a sure-fire cure for the common cold, I doubt that there's anything that can be done for my current situation. A cold is just one of those things that you have to grin and bear. (And sniffle all the way through.)
For some reason, there's a small part of me that demands that I go out and socialize. That way, if I get to suffer the wrath of this virus, at least I'll know that there are a lot of other people going through the exact same experience.
But I won't do that, of course. The way I feel, I'd rather lie in bed and vegetate.
...And use up boxes after boxes of tissue paper, I suppose.