Monday evening, a scratchy throat spiraled out of control to full blown white-hot rage in my throat. (I’m quite sure the seedy bar I visited Saturday was teaming with disease, specifically the karaoke microphone. Well, also the skanks, but I know I didn’t pick up anything from them).
By this morning, I could talk, but I didn’t want to. Immediately my co-workers noticed and told me to go home.
On my way home, I dropped close to 50 bucks on things to make my throat feel better: Ricola, Chloroseptic, tea, salt, ice cream, and antibiotics to thwart any potential strep throat and then proceeded to sleep until 7 p.m.
Long story short, people think something is wrong if I’m not talking. And I totally dominate at charades.