18 days into it the virus is presumably gone but the congestion remains. Whoever invented this shit deserves a baseball bat to the balls. Unless female, in which case she deserves the baseball bat to the cervix. If not gendered, a skillet to the melon. Whatever. Mayhem in any case.
I’ve got a couple of blackberry pies in the oven. I went whole hog and made woven lattice tops, even. I don’t often bake pies. I enjoy doing it, but I just don’t long for a broad assortment of fat pants and that would be required if I baked pies more often.
It’s probably not wise to consume a fruit flavored hunk of immunity suppressing sugar while afflicted by the cruds, but if worst comes to worst I’ll leave a nicer corpse that I would if I were to live to codgerhood. Not that I can think of a single reason, even a half-assed one, why such a thing might matter. Nicer corpse OR surviving to codgerhood.
Be well, friends and neighbors. Being unwell sucks.