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Thursday, September 20, 2007


I'm sick. Not in the I-like-kicking-puppies kinda way. Like somebody-got-their-crappy-germs-on-me-and-now-I-feel-like-crap sick.

A carpenter jumped into my mouth and sanded the back of my throat with the roughest grittiest sandpaper and then didn't clean up his mess; he just left all the powder and crumpled paper scattered upon my tonsils. A band of Germ Gypsies are dancing around the bonfire they have built under my uvula. Fire and uvula don't mix.

My nose is swollen, and I'm sure I resemble one of the enthusiastic Honkers on Sesame Street except I possess less enthus. I'm going through tons of lotion-kissed tissue. (Bless the person who invented lotion-kissed tissue!) Blagh. I'm finished with drawn-out descriptions. My ears hurt. My body aches. Poo.

I rarely get sick and, obviously, hate becoming so because of the discomfort. Even truer, I realized today, is that me getting sick makes me… one… of you. You= you mere careless mortals down there who don't know how to protect yourselves from microscopic little germs. You= you simpletons down there with your stuffy noses and wadded up tissues and your whininess about being sick. For a short miserable throat-burning nose-honking time, I am one of you.

A few people have mentioned that I have a superiority complex. I call it Reality. Now, pass the tissue.

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