I don't know about you, but getting sick induces serious existential crises in me. First a scratchy throat, and next thing I know I am disturbed by being trapped in a human body. From whence do I come, whither do I go, and when is someone coming to cuddle me? Have I missed entirely the life I was meant to have (was I eternally abandoned; am I to blame)? Thank goodness for the humor of a cold. To keep one from trembling too swiftly on the topic of marriage, babies, worldly achievement, and home ownership, there's one's hilarious voice. "I'b thoo thsick," I say, "I'b THOOPER thsick. Where are by covv drobs? Dizzyues? I deed to blow by DOZE."
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