In a Nyquil-drenched dream last night, the Boy threw open my bedroom door and gifted me with a life-sized likeness of my own head. Wrapped in foil. Face covered in soot. With bedhead. So that I could "remember what the nursery was like."
No, I don't understand it at all.
In other news, I think Death frenched me as I slept last week, and I've spent the last 7 days with a blowtorch burning in my throat, a nasty cough, and fatigue that's starting to feel like part of my DNA.