I really hate those drop shadows. They make the difference between art -- or at least an honest attempt -- and design crap. I'm dumping them before I print this.
So I'm roasting with fever, my face tight and swollen and ready to spit fat at the touch of a fork. Karen's dad had it and then she had it and now I have it and I'm sick and my brain presses painfully against the bone spurs that line the interior of my too-small cranium. Readers (I hope it's okay if I call you readers; an imaginary audience will do me good in an imaginary way, like zinc or vitamin C.), I understand that you don't really need details about the snot.
Readers glance at the monitor and then at the bagel/muffin/roti sitting too close to the keyboard, crowding up against the morning's beverage, angling for a nice spill into the Medusa-locks of the power strips. We certainly do not.
Well, if you're interested I've got lots of details, rich and vivid, impressions in all the major senses including the vestibular, every note and particle snot related. But I shall refrain.