Sicko

I feel like the unfortunate protagonist in a horror movie, the premise of which is that the Holy Terror of Illness grabs hold 'round the neck of hapless mothers who are simply trying to go about their hapless mother duties. One moment I am sweating through my clothing, the next I am shivering in bed and mumbling incoherently. My moments of unrestful slumber are filled with delirious dreams where the faces of my fellow victims—all of whom I know—morph into horned monsters with bumpy chicken skin and terribly dirty fingernails. There is some sort of mushroom blooming in my throat, preventing me from proper breathing. My children, testy from maternal neglect, are waging war against one another. How, you may wonder, can I blog in such a state? I don't know; I just can.