Ode To My Left Nostril (Or: The Ramblings of the Sick at 6am)

I don't know if those last three cough drops are what did me in, or if I simply watched too many episodes of The Wire while knitting, but I had vivid dreams verging on hallucinations about drug dealers getting revenge on other dealers with complicated stitches on their socks. The dream was complete with loose stitches between the gusset and instep, and a lead drug dealer who looked suspiciously like Avon Barksdale.

Also, on a related note, I miss breathing through my left nostril. We had a good thing going on for a while there, I'd inhale, air would flow through. Now my poor right nostril is forced to do the work of two or, worse, my mouth, which already has plenty of jobs without adding another (eating, drinking, talking). The floor is riddled with the broken, dead kleenex that sacrificed themselves to try and make life a little easier. Still, my left nostril remains uncooperative.

Cold, I am so over you.