Gertrude is finally asleep. Thank God. I’m exhausted.

Despite the fact that I took some form of NyQuil last night, I feel like crap. I didn’t sleep well and the sleep aid in the drug only served to make me feel cloudier and less alert.

My sinuses feel like two giant tennis balls, complete with fuzz. No decongestant works. Nothing makes me feel better except a washcloth dabbed in Vicks Vapo Rub. The menthol somehow soothes the irritated sinus passages. I look like someone with an ether addiction, lying on the floor with a washcloth over my face huffing the fumes.

The only other respite from pain comes from the teapot. When it starts to whistle, I stick my nostril right on the column of steam, sending searing hot water vapor traveling through my nasal passages scorching and opening up passages like Sherman marching through Atlanta.

Other than that, a nice hot cup of tea is rather soothing. Except. . . the only tea in the house my wife’s. It is tinged with all sorts of unnecessary spices, scents, fruits and flowers. A cup tastes like a steaming pot of potpourri. In the very least, my breath smells like my grandma’s apartment.

Every time I take a sip, I can’t help but think I’m ingesting the ground up bones of two of Strawberry Shortcake’s friends. Cinnamon Candy and Plora Plumbpie. They gave their lives to soothe my fevered brow.

Taking care of a baby who feels like crap while you feel like crap is impossible. Neither of us feels very cared for, so we sit together on the couch having moaning contests.

With the technical scores for timbre and length, I’m doing well. However, for sympathy and patheticness, Gertrude’s deep sighs and minimal whimpers far outweigh my gargantuan moans.

She looks so peaceful right now. I’m jealous. She’s off in slumber land while I’m stuck out here with sporting equipment shoved up my nose.