It's hard to talk.

Another hour before the workshop. I have to admit, I'm getting a little nervous. Probably because I'm afraid of looking nervous in front of the students and no one wants to listen to a facilitator trying to keep vomit from rising up his throat. It's hard to talk with throw-up in your mouth.

Hand-outs? Check.
Prepared notes? Check.
A loose structure for the hour? Check.
Whiskey? With ice, please.

I will be Voltron for the next two hours. Oh, I may look vunerable with just five robotic lions. But when the eleventh hour comes creeping up, I will combine my mechanical felines and form an unstoppable force of paragraph structure and time management. Somewhere in the back row an inhuman growl fills the room. I draw an oversized sword from out of thin air. Silence strikes the room. A hideous, tentacled monstrosity leaps into the air. In one grand motion, I sever test anxiety in half - the two putrid chunks fall to the floor with a heavy thump.