It may be that the only thing worse than writing a grant is the last throes of submitting a gr ant. And the only thing worse than the last throes of submitting a grant is doing it when you have Darwin's Own Evil Cold.
I do believe that there are small creatures, in my head, with long handled geology hammers. The rustiness of said hammers is without question dropping little flakes of iron into the middle of my thought processes. They are pounding on all the neurons that are responsible for grant writing. The neurons responsible for double checking that I didn't say anything stupid.
There are also small creatures with cigarette lighters, no, flame throwers, in my head. They are somewhere deep in my nasopharynx. They are playing some indistinct, throbbing music that quite likely is offensive to everyone. They are, needless to say, finding this whole process tremendously amusing. I, needless to say, am not. Many, many things hurt. I can't even get the formatting right for this post.
I have a marvelous collaborator, and she is doing her best to get the i's crossed and t's dotted and wording such that They Will Give Us Money. It is almost done. Very, very soon, I will go home, and go to bed and have tea and toast. I will sleep until the next millennium and funding starts rolling in.