The End of the Sickness Road

I honestly do not know what is worse when it comes to illness - when you are in the weeds marginally demented by lack of coherent thought or towards the end when you a few rungs from the top of the health ladder. Sure it sucks to be sick, but it is made better by the joys of Nyquil, Dayquil and your confused somewhat delirious being. Did I just say and not think you are a fucking asshole mutherfucker? Sorry, I'm sick. Whoopsie. Being almost healthy is a horrid state, easily tired; prone to coughing fits and whenever a nose is blown a mini Jackson Pollack remains in the wrinkled Kleenex. Not to brag, but if I was running a supply store for witches, let us just say the ingredient of mucusey snot would be well stocked. Perhaps it is the scientist in me, or my love of all things gruesome, but I am almost to the point of collecting it to gauge how much freaking yellow discharge my nose is producing. We are talking Guinness Records, people. I guess I should be happy that this latest duel of baby germs is almost completed. However, tomorrow Owen is in back-up child care which is often a petri dish of pediatric phlegm producing possibilities. (Good god, I love alliteration). So stay tuned. In other news, the other night I threw away the last half of my madras (vodka, OJ and cranberry), which was significant as it was then the realization that the illness had handily defeated me hit. One Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall does not throw away booze; she sucks it up, downs the remainder and continues onward. I think any unfinished adult beverage is akin to a leaving a child on a doorstep. In other words, a tragedy. This in certain realms would be considered "a problem." But whatever, there are few things in this life I view as sacred, and the drink is one of them. So to you half filled pint glass of vodka, I am sorry. I wish I could have loved you better, but alas, I could not. For this, I apologize.