It is a very unattractive cold. It looks a lot like this:
In fiction, people rarely have colds. This is because not only is it unattractive, it is also impractical.
It's hard to save the world when you can't walk three steps without wheezing.
It's hard to outwit the evil genius when your head hurts.
It's hard to be an action hero when your holster is stuffed with tissues.
When I was a kid, I had a love for that very romantic notion of dying of consumption. Or a broken heart. Which was usually exacerbated by consumption. Then, at some point, I learned what consumption was.
Romantic? Eugh. No.
Tragic. From a distance, sure.
But there is nothing remotely beautiful about it.
It's a lot like a cold. But bloodier. And fatal.
Oh, sure, Keats made it a little bit beautiful:
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Probably because nothing rhymes with phlegm.
This post has been written under the influence of cold and flu medication.
I take no responsibility for it.
Can somebody get me some more tissues? And some Cheese Twisties?
I'll be in bed, smothered in tissues.