I feel ya Little Peggy Anne McKay

No gash or rash or purple bumps, but there might as well be. We are a bunch of sickos. After my last post my mind was brewing with cool future posts. I had caught the blogging bug, or so I thought. What I actually caught, and Cora and Claire caught too, was the flu. The wretched, awful, hit-by-a-2-ton-truck, flu. This post is not to seek your pity, but rather to inform you that my brain is fried (seriously, fried. Well maybe not done yet as it is actually in the process of frying currently as I sit here with a wicked temperature). So no brilliant posts from me. And when I return and begin using that mush left for brains to post again, please love me in spite of what, um, blogging genius is created.

In case you are wondering what is getting me through this, well here she is in all of her glory:
Purchased in 1992, she has comforted (no pun intended) me for 17 years (remember what I said about fried brains, I just had to use a calculator to come up w/ that number). She is getting a bit tattered, and I may cry when she completely disintegrates, but for now she offers the perfect mix of warmth and comfort. I know you're jealous because you threw yours away years ago. I mean who knew how much mileage one could get out of this thing (except maybe you Edna and Ericka, because as I remember correctly, one of these babies graced your bed as well!).

And now I will go crash on my bed and curl up with my trusty ol comforter. That little kiddish secret won't keep us from being friends right? Right?