The Dingo Stole My Baby

This past week I’ve been fighting off my 17th sinus infection since the Sick Season started way back in October. But what I’ve decided is that people who make the calendar adjustments for Sick Season are full of shit because I realized yesterday, after emptying the architectural masterpiece that was my trashcan-o-snotrags, that They never actually tell you when Sick Season is over. I mean, they run corny news stories about taking vitamins and drinking water and washing your hands to prevent the Sickness but there’s never any mention of an estimated departure date for the Season.

So upon review I’ve decided that the Sick Season is much like Valentines Day. We all know that Hallmark created Valentines Day to sell more cheesy cards and artery clogging chocolate even though we are theoretically supposed to celebrate our significant others and loved ones throughout the entire year. But they’ve got us suckered into buying all of this aforementioned crap because they have really good marketing strategists and hello, someone is going to buy me some chocolate. And maybe even a cookie. You cannot go wrong with this scenario. The Sick Season, however, has no cookies or chocolates or even flowers that die within the week. What they have are twelve dollar boxes of Sudafed and long lines at the pharmacy where you have to prove that you’re not going home to cook meth by showing the window worker your full set of non-meth-damaged teeth and signing a technologically advanced slip of paper. All of this leads me to my final conclusion that the Sick Season was created by a bunch of sadistic pharmaceutical reps who needed to bump their monthly numbers and started spreading these nasty lies about a ‘Season’ and ‘being prepared’ when really we should just be prepared for angry germies to attack our sinus cavities at any given moment. I’m really not so sure now how this relates to Valentines Day but I’m just going to blame my incoherency on the prescription-strength pills that came in a really pretty orange container. Pretty because it had the words ‘codeine’ and ‘Robin’ within bare centimeters of each other.

Speaking of blaming things on drugs, I’m going to go ahead and incite that clause for this morning’s Bust Ass in the parking lot. I’m told it was a very graceful Bust Ass, one where I gently swept my arms above my head in slow motion as my foot attacked the perfectly flat asphalt, turning at an impossible angle before I landed on my hands, one knee, an ankle and a hip. I’m going to let you picture how all those body parts ended up touching the ground at the same time and then I’m going to tell you how I’ve never lost a Twister game yet. Unfortunately this was not a Twister game or even a test of my wicked bendy skills. It was a rough parking lot with a whole crew of landscapers staring at my strangely contorted ass and my friend Amanda beside me, attempting not to laugh and asking in an increasingly horrified voice if I was okay.