The summer flu/cold combo of doom is currently kicking my butt with gusto, and he’s wearing broken glass studded, weighted combat boots made from the skins of Persian kittens, which are neatly laced with the ribbons from little girls’ Easter hair dos. Those poor girls in their frilly dresses must now choke on strands of their own hair, and their tresses will probably become so tangled and laden with wildlife that their mothers will have no choice but to cut them into lopsided pixies.
If today’s post is pathetic and non-sensical, I apologize. Strike that: I apologize on behalf of Advil Cold and Sinus Plus, which nips the edge off the flu but also reduces my IQ by 60 points.
Yes, folks, this virus is a take no prisoners, rule the world with fear and mucous kind of dude. And he’s taken up residence in my body. I know I’m whining, and quite frankly, I don’t give a cinnamon red hot.
I don’t know why my immune system heads out on vacation whenever school goes out, leaving me behind. It may be a dud. Here I am on the third day of vacation, and Shiny Sun actually showed up for the first days of July rather than sending his soggy friend Rainy Deluge instead. I had lovely daydreams last week, when I was frantically typing report cards and getting things together for year-end, about walking Sherman in the sunshine, listening to something excellent on the iPod and generally absorbing the joy that is summer. I had such big plans, and they were all glorious. Instead, it was a struggle to get the three sinkfuls of dishes I accomplished out of the way.
I’m like the crusty bits of peanut butter that stick to the threads inside the jar lid, getting more nasty and pathetic all the time: I was once something rather nifty, but my appeal and my efficacy are seriously compromised.
I have a bit of a fever going on, according to the thermometer and my goosebumps even when hiding under my heavy duvet. My bone marrow has hosted a weekend-long thrash metal concert and I am feeling the effects of the mosh pit. The Electrician left a partial bag of Doritos on my couch, and my appetite is so suppressed that I haven’t even unrolled the bag to sniff the zesty cheese: this may be the beginning of the end, my friends. Every time I blow my nose, a tear duct in my left eye sprays the inside of my glasses. I am producing buckets of mucus the colour of ripe pears and my forehead has pressured up to the point where I’m sure I look like Megamind.
In short, I am a sexy beast.
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