What a waste of a thing. You're plodding along, minding your own business when WHAM! You're forced into bed, too weak to move, too hot to not leave your bedclothes dripping with sweat, incapable of doing anything other than sneezing fiercely and ripping your lips open in the process.
You lose your appetite which is no bad thing as you lose your sense of taste too and may as well be eating glue sandwiches in cardboard bread. You're bunged up and find breathing difficult. If you duct tape your mouth closed, you die. Simply running your fingers through your hair is painful as it feels as if each strand is attached by a little barb under your scalp which pulls at your brain.
I don't even know what the difference is between cold and flu other than one lasting longer than the other. All I know is that I'm either in a lackadaisical void, or I'm in a lackadaisical void and I don't feel very well.
My Boss boss has run his company for a good forty years. For the first five, he did it alone. How? HOW? Am I to assume he never got a cold? Or even worse, he went through what I'm going through now but shrugged it off! HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? I'M DYING HERE....
Large Northern Flatmate watched me in the living room last night, coughing violently, and commenting that he never gets ill. He's right, he really doesn't seem to. Again, How? Why?
I can only assume he's like the teenage Damien in Omen II in the factory scene where pipes burst and employees choke on the fumes and die. But Damien simply walks through it all, slowly, seriously, and to an accompaniment of satanic Gregorian chant.
My flatmate is the antichrist.