Wait, Is His Name Really Heathcliff Heathcliff?

I've been terribly sick with the flu since Thursday and pretty much haven't been able to leave my bed for four days. In between delirious fever dreams, I read Wuthering Heights. And now I'm finding it really hard not to talk like the olden days. I can't stop referring to my dog as a cursed wretch, and I keep complaining to the boyfriend that "I've grown so utterly weary of this malignant state."

This really needs to stop before work tomorrow. Like, I'm more concerned about this going away than I am about all the mucus.