Bring on the chicken soup! (Groucho Marx will do.)

I have a cold. A sore throat, runny nose, sneezing all the time kind of cold. My nose is chapped from the incessant Kleenex violations and is thus a vibrant red. When the violators are not violating, I make sniffy sounds followed up by a sad sigh. My sneezes stem from a place deep inside of me, ripping forth with such volatility that my throat explodes and sometimes I fall down.
At night, while trying to sleep, my nose emits a high pitched whistle that wakes me up in a terror about who is standing over my bed wielding the baseball bat I keep next to my nightstand for such cases where I might need to defend myself from the bandits as the one perceived to be standing over my bed, whistling a high pitched whistley death call, and wielding my very own weapon. It turns out to be Century Bob, and he does not even have arms, so he ain’t wielding nothing. The whistle is being produced by me. Having a cold forces on me some really bizarre dreams, and I wake up in a panic at 2:13 am every night.
I can’t breathe very well, and despite the constant flow of snot, my nasal passages are excruciatingly dry. (Sniff). I say a lot of things to myself while laden with a cold like, “sigh”, and “Poor me”, and “I am soooo sick!”.
My chest is on fire. I try to douse the flames by drinking a lot of water, but they are reignited by the vicious and violent sneezes that contort me into shapes Cirque du Soleil would be impressed by.
I have a cold. I think I may be dying. I am sicker than anyone else in the whole world has ever been. And I am not just saying that because I am feeling so sorry for myself. (Sniff).