For the past two days, my life has revolved around the magnificent amount of mucus my head has been producing nonstop. The congestion shifts from one side to the other; I find relief in my left and then throbbing in my right, only to have the pattern repeat itself conversely some time later. In the past forty-eight hours, I have been curled up in my favorite reading/writing chair in my family room overlooking my beautiful wooded backyard (that will soon become three feet deep in leaves but I’ll try not to consider that at the moment), huddled under a blanket with my Toshiba on my lap, my thesaurus and Stephen King’s “On Writing” balanced precariously on one arm and a box of Kleenex on a nearby TV stand. The pile of used tissues scattered on the floor around me are clinging to my metal doggie planter, my fireplace utensils and perhaps even Folly “moose” McGhee herself. I move only to pee, refill my hot tea or tomato soup, or crawl to my bed. Thank god for laptops, cell phones and text messages.

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