Yesterday almost all day, I had a tickle in my throat. You know, the kind that makes you want to continuously make that "ehkkkkk" noise to dislodge whatever is tickling you? I finally figured it out around 3:00 when I looked in the mirror at work. There was a thing on my tonsil. It looked like a chicken pock. (also, is that the singular of pox?) I blamed Scott, and went back to drinking a record amount of water.
And then I sneezed.
Something flew out of my mouth and into my elbow pit. It was a piece of oatmeal. That's right, I spent about 8 hours with a cooked oat crusted onto my throat.
Not my finest hour(s).
At least it wasn't a raisin!
Post title inspired by the poem Sick, by Shel Silverstein