Oh my god. I am dying. I really think I am. I alternate between freezing cold and breaking out in a sweat. All of the dogs want to lay on me, as if, in doing so, they will magically cure me, or at least win a prize for being closest to me when I die. I can't sleep because I just hear the wheezing, creaking, rattling sounds in my chest as I try to breathe. I'm certain this is what they call the death rattle.
I keep getting email notifications that my ILL books have arrived. My dissertation mocks me.
And I should be in the Bahamas, getting ready for the rehearsal dinner for my best friend's wedding.