(with props to Joelle, since I noticed the FIRST TIME I WROTE THIS that it sounded a lot like something she'd written before.)

Um ... yeah, hi? Hella rotten throat infection that's making me sound like an iconic Chicago 70s DJ and making me cough the cough of the damned and spit green, infectious sputum in a can all unladylike? And making my head hurt behind my eyes? And making me run hot and cold, and not in the good, tingly way? Yeah, meet hella nuclear-grade antibiotic that's going to take a baseball bat to your rotten, ugly little face.

Infection? Z-Pak.
Infection? Z-PAK.

Yeah, that's what I thought, bee-yotch.

Can I just tell you how glad I am that my doctor has given me a running refill on the lovely Z-Pak? Because I go through this shit at least three times a year. Not that I'm using antibiotics with reckless abandon or anything, because that would be bad. But fuck! This one's kicking my ass.

Night night time.

P.S. Name the author and story from which I riffed on my title. And no googling, bitches!