What’s Wrong With Me?
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 from continents, especially Europe.
- Sleeplessness because Elvis’ ghost visits me nightly and gripes endlessly about how Mary Tyler Moore Hogged 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 discovered them to be 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 so very bad,” I said to me.
It’s sad when things are bad,
would you not agree?
I would be so glad to not be sad.
I’d be a happy lad, so full of glee,
and live so happily.
Do you see how infuriating that is?
After doing some follow-up research, I’ve found the author of these books, 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.
A horrible lie.
A horrible horrible lie.
I have written in the past about a certain tattoo. A tattoo on my left butt cheek. A tattoo of Winnie the Pooh with his head stuck in a honey pot. I’ve referenced it often.
It’s a lie.
I haven’t any tattoos of lovable cartoons charters on or around my buttocks.
I apologize to anyone my lies may have hurt.
I apologize to A. A. Milne.
I feel so ashamed.
Hopefully now that the truth is out, the healing can begin.
Thank you for your patience.
Sometimes when Elvis’ ghost visits me, he brings me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They taste like pine cones and they smell like fear.