Ah, the Spring Thrax. It’s somewhere between allergies and pneumonia. The kinda sick wherein you regularly pour yourself a nice, smooth, room temperature three-fingers of NyQuil and kick back with your inhaler preparing to dream about losing your teeth and flying over low buildings. That’s been my world for the past week—coughing up parcels of seal blubber and wheezing my way through a pretty intense Fringe marathon for a few days until I woke up and thought, “Shit, I think have tuberculosis.” It felt like I was one bloody nose away from Ebola and one rash shy of the Scarlet Fever.

I’ve been quarantining myself pretty well this past week, but there’s no escaping the family. My head was so utterly fogged and muffled up, communication felt like talking underwater. The kids just seemed like baby birds, necks stretching up at me with their big mouths open. Not the cute kind of baby birds, the kind that are all scraggly and bug-eyed from just hatching. I wanted to wretchedly whine at them, “It seems like I just fed you! Why can’t you feed yourself yet?”

I’ll tell you why they can’t feed themselves, my nine-year-old apparently made an egg salad sandwich the other day (unbeknownst to me somehow), but upon finding that we were out of mayo, he decided to use peanut butter instead. He slapped that concoction onto some bread and ate it for lunch. He then declared it good, “eggy and peanutty at the same time.” I nearly threw up in a trashcan when he told me about it. Kids, they’ll blow your mind all day if you let them.

But anyway, I’m sick. There’s all sorts of stuff in this issue, I can’t for the life of me remember what any of it is though. The table of contents is like right over there to the left, so while I cough my brains out and choke on my own coagulated mucous, you enjoy this fine periodical and be sure to tell all your friends about it.

Sara makes the words happen.