The Blasted Plague of a Cold

As a current bout of some virus or other has stripped me of my speaking voice, I will endeavor to inscribe all of the nonsensical murmurings in my head to this forum for posterity.
Just how I came down with the blasted cold is a mystery to me. My not-so-alter ego who is obsessed with hand sanitation at work and has the unfortunate and selfish talent of avoiding the sick members of her family, does not see a reasonable explanation for this. Anyhow, this cold has left me with no voice and many thoughts to be spoken.
I have just taken a writing test. I am told I write like James Joyce. I have never read anything by James Joyce, though I intend to, if only to see for myself.
The more optimistic side of my persona agrees heartily with Jane Austen's Mrs. Bennet, "people do not die of colds." The constantly-fighting-for-dominance side of me begs to differ. Ms. Sunshine begins to remind me of all the pleasantries I have coming up. The wedding of a friend followed in a few months by my own. "Perhaps," the pessimist dryly remarks, "if, you do die, it will be a comfort to your mother to know it was in pursuit of Mr. Bingley." The rational part of me bespeaks the silliness of both the other two, all the while suggesting it may be time to put down Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. The rational side also suggests that the time has come to stop my jabberings and go to sleep, that the cold may be defeated and the mundane work may be attended to next week and tomorrow.