I’m not sure what happened to today. I woke up hacking and coughing, took some Robitussin, and now, some nine hours later, my memory of the intervening hours has shrunk down to a shadowy montage of interlocking scenes: laying like a slug on the couch, pulling together some sort of noontime meal for the rugrats out of peanut butter and graham crackers, putting loads of plague-ridden sheets through the laundry and spraying Febreze around willy-nilly in an effort to dispel that medicinal pall that sometimes settles over sickrooms. I think I might have gotten a shower in there somewhere. And I’m pretty sure the alien visitation was a hallucination. Too many consecutive episodes of Roswell, perhaps.
They should make those letters on the side of the Robitussin dosage cup a little bigger. “TSP” and “TBS” look a lot alike, you know?