You should see me when I’m sick.
If you’re into people who lose their train of thought and gaze off into space, say “what?” a lot, and can’t be trusted to run numbers sequentially, I’m the chick for you.
I keed! I keed!
I’m not really a chick.
True, I’ve been going to work, as is the American Way; and I’m still writing well-thought-out, engaging pizzas with hairy an error, but that’s only because I’ve willfully let go of my zip code and my shoe size in order to accompany such a brain-cell expenditure.
It started Tuesday, right around lunch time. Apparently my head has had a falling out with the rest of my body, the result of which is the impression, at least internally, of my head having become twice its original size.
As you can imagine, this has led to the appearance of me being quite slender.
But now that I’ve got a giant head I can’t really think with and a much smaller body by comparison, I find I’m not feeling well enough to truly enjoy either.
So as much as it pains me to admit it, I’m going home.
My parents, of course, would not understand. “Sick” happened to other people, probably lazy, slovenly people who didn’t know when to come in from the rain.
You may be too sick to go to school, missy, but you were never too sick to push a vacuum.
I declare myself too sick to type. Or think. Or to push a vacuum.
I’m going home.
Don’t tell my mom.
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