didn't your mother ever tell you that posing on the wing of a small aircraft with a Playgirl model will give you a death of a cold?

This is not related to the previous post from my mother about catching a cold, but I have, in fact, caught some deadly illness. Everything inside my neck hurts, including my throat, my neck muscles, my actual spine, and possibly whatever else is contained within a human neck. Esopghagus? Larynx? Trying to kill me. The pressure behind my cheeks is making my eyes water.

It occurred to me the other day that I don't really have anyone on my drunk-dial list. When I bought my Treo, I had to manually transfer numbers from my old phone, and that was a good excuse to dump the numbers of ex-boyfriends of waning (well, waned) importance. Should I become intoxicated, I pretty much just text-message Megan, which is both nonembarrassing and generally even fairly literate. My old phone sent text messages in all-caps; my new one deftly handles proper capitalization and even, say, semicolons.

I wonder what the overlap is between most people's drunk-dial lists and their sick-dial lists. I don't think I have a sick-dial list (I would if I lived in Williamsburg, closer to the people who would be on it). I hope this doesn't get worse; I have a spelling bee tomorrow. If I start posting "someone please help me need soup tylenol dear god" to my blog, well ... I hope that's entertaining for you all.