Sickly

Sickly. I am sickly. I am a zombie. I am a sickly zombie. My daughter caught a cold somewhere (most likely from those no-good hoodlums that have been hugging on her at Stroller Strides just so they can play with her new hot wheels car) and she brought it home to share with the whole family. Let me just say, we are the nastiest sounding quartet of coughing, loogie-hocking, snot-dripping people you have ever heard. This house is a den of death and despair. I, in all my brilliance, slowly suited up in all my armor and, despite the cold-induced vertigo, made my way to the truck and subsequently the voyage all the way to work. The Gray Donkey (the affectionate name I call my truck) and I made it to work with no mishaps. I hoped against all odds for an easy day but found out we were slammed busy. They rushed me out to my beat to thwart a large scale "event" from occurring. Basically, I sat in a car for three and a half hours and thought I was going to die...not from an outside threat but death by mucus. I couldn't even see straight. Some crime fighter I was going to be for the city. Needless to say, I went home. Now, I am on drugs (let it be known I am usually totally granola when it comes to colds...water, water, flushing water...no drugs to suppress my body's natural crime-fighting abilities), but this cold is kicking my ass. I feel sleep sloshing its way in.