Either the Fat Lady has sung her last and made a hospice of my noggin, pressing her three hundred and forty-two pounds of dying flesh into the three pound cavity still occupied by my quarter ounce brain, or I have a righteous sinus infection, or the flu. Regardless, I wish the EMTs, Paramedics, Fire Marshall, Jaws of Life, AAA—somebody—would come and remove whoever’s swollen ass (because judging from my appetite, it’s most likely the Fat Lady's), has taken up residence just below and behind my eyeballs, and bury the whole lot of it in a piano case somewhere in New Mexico.
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Not the kind of Bugs we like.. this is so weird.. it sounds exactly (well almost) like the description of what my son Max has going on in his head. Hope you feel better soon.
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