And Yet I Still Write...

I'm sick. My nose burns with the touch of a tissue, my eyes feel too dry. I swear my head is going to burst. My chest makes a sound reminiscent of the sound I heard a pervert make over the phone once. *heavy breathing* Except that I cough afterwards, like a woman three times my age...okay maybe twice my age. AND YET I still write.Perhaps if I were imprisoned..nah. I would write more then. I picture myself being like the Marque de Sade in the movie Quills. Writing on anything, including the bedsheets to get this demon out of me!!*Swinging at invisible demons and then hacking as a result of my effort*I know. If I were the victim of some freak accident...nope. I'd learn to write with my toes.*giggling now with the thought of monkeys and their odd little feet. Hacking again because of my laughter.*Maybe if my husband was to grow angry...been there, done that.*holding out the t-shirt for you to read.*Once I thought I had nothing to write about. I wrote about it.*Eyes narrowing at what I know to be the invisible demons sneaking back into the room.*Excuse me...I think I need more Nyquil.