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
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.