The worst part about being sick is the sick dreams.
Before I finally gave up and roused myself at 5:00 am to go searching through the cupboards for flu medicine, my entire night of dreams consisted of a barely coherent olympic battle between my nasal passages, struggling for dominion of the incoming air. There's not really a story to sick dreams, no entertainment value like the adventure dreams that I would often rather go back to dreaming than wake up and live my real life. And there is no rest to sleep that is riddled with sick dreams, because they are semi-conscious dreams, and I'm constantly aware of my sickness even while partly submerged in the irrational sick dreaming.
Fortunately, my tired brain remembered seeing one last packet of NeoCitran stowed away in my library bag with my Bible and my notebook for Bible study. A welcome discovery, even if it did turn out to be that horrible, nasty, cherry-flavoured one that I was once given by a charitable soul. Hopefully, it will kick in soon and let me sleep. Real sleep, where I get to be a viking, not an olympic nose-breather.
Flu medicine: Bringing you incoherent blog entries since 2001.