I don't know your technical name, so I've assigned you one that I hope is acceptable in your micro-colony. Maybe your name is "Mike." If so, I apologize. It is not my intent to offend you.
I'm merely writing to suggest that you consider moving on. You've outstayed your welcome in my respiratory system. I want my voice back. I miss having oxygen whenever I want it. Nyquil is not my first choice for nightcap. No, really.
You amused the children at first. Long periods of Mom being rendered unable to remain vertical led to wanton snacking and unabated Wii sessions. My inability to yell without ascending into tones hearable only to the family dogs was a treat for them, too. However, they are yearning for hot meals and they are tired of fetching tissues of cough drops.
My employer would undoubtedly like to see me actually make it to work more than one day in a row. My students are beginning to wonder if I've moved and left no forwarding address.
To put it bluntly, it's time for you to leave. Take your snot and leave my mucous membranes. Take your hot and cold flashes, I don't need 'em. Take your aches and call it a season. Don't think of me. Don't think of me.
I'll just be swallowing without excruciating pain and inflating my lungs to their fullest capacity. Have a nice life cycle. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
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