Something is a bit off.
I seem to be suffering from some mysterious medical condition.
The symptoms are myriad:
- Runny nose.
- Headaches in my stomach.
- Stomach aches in my head.
- Squirrels steal my mail and replace it with half eaten nuts.
- Everything smells like fear.
- Everything tastes like pine cones.
- Pine cones taste like pickled beets (but they smell like fear).
- The sound of Justin Bieber’s voice makes me weep uncontrollably.
- I have a rash on my butt in the shape of Piers Morgan’s face.
- I have a rash on my face in the shape of Piers Morgan’s butt.
- My left eyeball pops out of its socket at really inconvenient times.
- Itchy scalp.
- Tremors 2.
- Any movie involving giant mutant worms.
- Sleeplessness from incontinence.
- Sleeplessness because Elvis’ ghost visits me nightly and gripes endlessly about how Mary Tyler Moore Hogged up all the screen time in Change of Habit.
- The compulsion to make ridiculous lists.
In my quest for answers I’ve read several books authored by a world renown doctor.
Unfortunately, upon reading these books, I’ve found them to be of no help at all. Not only did these books not reveal any insights regarding my condition, I now have an incredible craving for green eggs and ham, and an intense desire to write in poetic meter.
This is bad.
It’s very bad.
So very bad, you see.
“Egad it’s bad,” I said to me.
It’s sad when things are bad,
would you not agree?
It makes me mad to be sad when things are bad.
I’d be a happy lad, so full of glee,
to be just a tad glad, and not mad or sad.
I’d live so happily.
Do you see how infuriating that is?
After doing some follow-up research, I’ve found Theodore Seuss Geisel to be a complete fraud, and not a medical professional of any kind.
Note: in another shocking turn of events, I’ve discovered the renowned author and child care expert, Dr. Spock, wasn’t really a Vulcan. When will the misinformation and subterfuge end?
But this spurred an epiphany: my condition has been caused by stress and anxiety; the stress and anxiety that results from living a lie.
In my next post, I will reveal the lie I’ve been living under, and the healing can begin.
Sometimes when Elvis’ ghost visits me, he brings me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They taste like pine cones and they smell like fear.