I have bronchitis, but bronchitis doesn't have me.

Ew. I'm writing this out of sweat-induced insomnia. I have a fever. I'm sweating like a whore in church. I have to keep pushing my cat off of me because he's like a furry radiator. I want my mom. There, I said it! Yes. I want her to make me get in the bathtub and bring me Saltines and apple juice. Mott's. In a plastic Rainbow Brite mug. Well, it was actually Twink. How the hell did I remember that fuzzy white thing's name? My illness must be giving me special powers of remembrance. The fall of the Babylonian Empire? 1453 A.D.! Wow. Apparently the application of heat to my brain has rendered me a genius. That's it! I'm off the anti-biotics!

Nah, no I'm not. When I cough, it ends in a bizarre sort of squeaking that really kinda freaks me out. Besides, if I stay this sweaty and glandularly swollen, no one will ever make out with me again. And we can't have that.