Cold

Every spring it seems, regardless of whatever the weather happens to be at the time, I get a cold. It's not a simple affair, just the occasional Halls and a packet of Kleenex, but a great big whopping event with an industrial sized bag of cough drops and using an entire roll of toilet paper as a tissue substitute.
PM drugs become my best friends, making sure I get to sleep with minimal amount of drip onto my pillow. However, the same wonderful medication that ensures time in dreamland forcefully wakes me up four hours later to flail around at three in the morning, nostrils encrusted with mucus, lips chapped and begging for a kind and merciful god who clearly doesn't exist to just put me out of my misery, because it is just too much damn effort to go take another FUCKING dose of this wonder pill.
A week after I'm over the brunt of this damn 'common cold', one nostril is still blocked, breathing is still labored, and certain body parts are operable only by ingesting dangerous amounts of caffeine, praying to the aforementioned nonexistent god, and then giving up and begging for more soup. In a breadbowl. That I can eat. And then take more PM drugs. And then again four hours later.
With more soup.