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 a couple days ago. 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 sick.
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 are never too sick to push a vacuum.
Luckily, Intern Boy -- former cube mate, early-morning nodder, and Man of a Thousand Khakis -- has departed, and so there's no one here to infect. IB (we got close, near the end) will soon be replaced by another intern, an eager, fresh-out-of-college woman with a mind ready to mold.
I shall crush her.
Until her arrival, however, I'll be down here, at the 48th floor dead-end, surreptitiously sniffling and gazing at the world through half-lidded eyes.
Happy Monday. Send soup and blankies.
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