Have I told you my face hurts?
It is at this point in the posting where the smiling voice of my father chimes in with “Your face hurts you? It’s killing me!”
He means well; but let’s ignore him, shall we?
My ears are plugged; my cheekbones sore: and if I hadn’t already had them removed, I would say that my tonsils had grown tonsils. Tonsils that need to come out. Whatever this is that I’ve picked up, it’s not yours, is it? Because if it is – and I suspect that it is – then you can have it back.
I don’t do well at being ill. It overwhelms me, blocks out other thoughts, makes me say things like, “Hey, what if we –“ whereupon I drift off and stare at things.
Of course, it’s the very best of times to ask me to loan you money or talk me into giving you a ride to the airport. I’m quite easygoing when I’m sick.
This feeling of lethargic denseness is not going to happen today, though. No, sir. I’ve stuck a sturdy little pole in the ground (here comes my dad again with a comment about little Poles and, perhaps, one regarding whether or not we can cache a small Czech) and I’m – I’m going to – well.
Well, well, well.
Ladies and gentlemen, go on without me. No, no! I insist. Just drop a couple sandwiches onto my lap and leave me to cradle my broken head in my hands and work quietly on my upcoming album.
Pearl and The Pips Live at the Vegas Lounge. No. A Whiter Shade of Pearl. No, wait. Pearl, Live at Budachan.
If you need me, I’ll be over here. Staring.
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