I’ve got "sniffles" in the way that a one-legged man has a "limp".
My throat feels like someone’s been shoveling snow off my larynx; the only album I can sing along to is In Utero.
I have brain-bubbles of enervation, ideas just beyond my comprehension - good ideas that I’m utterly unable to make work, currently.
I’m "frustrated" in the way that a thrice-whipped dog is "disgruntled".
I’m "irritated" in the way that a house picked up and dropped by a hurricane is "damaged".
I’m whining in lieu of writing, hoping that this avalanche of cavillous complaining will scrape away the hard-callous of sickness that is preventing me from writing...
Or, at least writing properly. Waaaaaah!
There; I feel better already.