a sty
a cold sore
a sore hamstring
a zit the size of Trump’s ego
a shitty, shitty attitude
Such concludes the list of ailments that greeted me, fangs bearing, upon waking this morning.
I am the hottest of messes today – one stupid comment away from trekking my throbbing limbs into the forest and joining Shrek in his grub-ridden swamp (any guesses how that reference came so easily?). I’ll take sludge baths and rodent delicacies over feigned normalcy any day of the week – especially this one.
Geoff tried to joke with me on the way to school and I kindly informed him that further negligence of my non-joking disposition would result in decapitation.
A student asked if I was going to miss my seniors, whose last day is next Friday, and despite my half-assed efforts to uncover a shred of compassion, I said no, because this mountain on my face didn’t arrive empty-handed. Also, because I won’t.
And it’s only noon, which leaves plenty of time for more callous exchanges that I may (or may not) regret later. Yippee.
I’m not going to fight you, universe, even though this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day is ALL YOUR DAMN FAULT. I’m just going to sit here and take care of myself while you wreak havoc on my pituitary gland, because the last time I came at you with boxing gloves you put me in a headlock that lasted for weeks, and if I have to listen to another round of your annoying victory chants, I’ll gouge my own sty-infested eyes out.
So poison my synapses at your stupid leisure. Fog up my lenses with all that hot air. I’ve got more productive things to do than battle you to the death – things like breathing and drinking water and putting a movie in for my students so that we all make it out of this day alive.
Don’t come at me, bro – come through me, and watch as I keep on living.
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