A pox upon my sickness.
My sinus cavity is stuffed full of vexation and cotton. I'm a mummified fixture, several hundred years old. Internal organs stashed away in canopic jars under my futon. Wrapped from head to toe in the bandages of a most pitiful common cold. Inhibiting my already mediocre creative reasoning to a function that approaching a negative integer.
And yet, I rejoice. For this alone is the sum-total of my life suffering. This alone the pinnacle of my unhappiness. I weep stuffy-doll tears of joy for the culmination of my worries being a simple, fucking virus of nasopharyngitis.
8:24 p.m. - 2015-01-12
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