I'm sick.
My world is made of pain, mucus, and another type of mucus. It's only a simple cold, but it is making my brain lawnmower violin cheeses.
I try to focus on one thought at a time but Mr. Worthing asked me to pay special attention to your German grammar today, Cecily. It makes it hard to concentrate.
I didn't used to get sick, in the long long ago in a galaxy far over misty mountains old. I had a robust immune system of a down comforter. I rarely got sickness, or down with it. But then I had kidneys. And a kid transplant.
My two children are in daycare, and are constantly surrounded by by their fellow plague-bearing mites spreading the pestilential blessings of Grandfather Nurgle to their unsuspecting parents like...404 error: no simile found. Please play again.
Four years ago I had a kidney transplant (I've mentioned that, haven't I? It seems like something I would have talked about. Oh well.) And now I'm on immunosuppressive drugs. They suppressive my immuno system, so I have to get careful not to be sick. That means I have to stay away from things that might make me sick.
Like my kids.
See my problematic, rhythmatic, world control? Magnetic, genetic, commands your soul.
So now my thoughts are squozen between massive blocks of sinus pressure, pressing with pressural pressure on my sinus cavities, and they squish out the other side like spaghetti western union telegram, telephone, tell a girl.
My head hurts.
It's a good thing I'm at school with the teenage wastelanders.
They understand me here.
Someone come take me home.
Home.
Home alone, home on the range, lone ranger, Walker, Texas Ranger, Ranger Rick, Rick Flair, Flaring nostrils, the Cosa Nostra, Nostradamus, hippopotamus, hipocampus, part of the brain, brain in your head, head case.
My head hurts.
How's yours?
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