(no subject)

Ah, a pleasing cocktail of NyQuil and Ibuprofen with a bit of lambic. Surely anything amiss in my bruised and battered body will be no matter at all until at least tomorrow morning. And perhaps this cold of ten days which seems to exist lingeringly only in my throat, with occasional brief forays north to the sinuses only to be driven back to defending its husky bastion, will be driven out with enough sleep and enough being knocked out. I can only hope. Seems like I picked mine up at Coldwood, and I think I was not alone in that, but the whole office seems to have had various strains of sick the past week as well, not directly related to me.

I need to stop putting my wrists and forearms in the way of fast-moving blunt objects, I need to tweak my helm so that my throat is actually protected, I need more energy, I need more time, and right now I need more sleep. But in that sleeping like the dead, what dreams may come puzzle my will, and make me ask "what the devil are those zombie pirates doing to my spleen over in the corner?"

... at least, if they're like my dreams of late that's about what I'd expect. Ah, well, maybe the zombies are afraid of lambic.