Being down with a nasty bug felt like you got a one-way ticket to the seventh circle of hell. You're stuck in bed, coughing like you've been smoking for a lifetime, and your throat feels like a tiny creature decided to set up its home in there. Scratchy doesn't even begin to cover it.

And then there's the weakness – your body felt like a deflated balloon that had lost its will to float. You're just lying there, wrapped in your blankets, hoping for a miracle cure that doesn't involve swallowing a gazillion pills. Every cough feels like a betrayal, too. You try to muffle it, but it escapes, disrupting the quiet agony of your sickbed.

"You doing okay?" Lottie asks, shutting the door behind her with a sympathetic frown directed at your sorry state. Then she whips out a bunch of plastic bags filled with medicine. Great, just what you needed – a buffet of pills that may or may not taste like death. You let out an audible groan at the sight of them. Lottie slightly smiles, probably enjoying your dramatic reaction.

"Brought some stuff, can't guarantee any of it is good though." And there you are, contemplating whether you’d rather deal with the sickness or the supposed cure. Spoiler alert: both options suck.