As you may have noticed, I didn't write anything yesterday. I was feeling ill. Cooties. Today I'm exhausted, still fighting the good fight, organizing white blood cells like it's a klan rally. They've packed themselves tightly into my lymph nodes, causing painful swelling on either side of my throat. Sitting here, sipping a steaming cup of echinacea tea, I'm confounded by homeopathy; unable to determine if honey is helpful or harmful for my current condition. Some sources say it feeds bacterial infection by providing them with the fuel necessary to proliferate; thick sickly-sweet gasoline. The heat from the tea gives me immediate relief from the pain I've been dealing with all day. Each time I swallow my jaw clenches hard as it braces for suffering. The pain slowly drifts down my throat like a paratrooper wielding samurai swords and I worry my fine-china teeth might shatter.
I feel like a cheap whore whose received one too many unscrupulous organ donors, damned to suffer the wrath and woe of an esophageal yeast infection.
My body has been afflicted too. It is sluggish and heavy, worn out from the pursuit of some unknown assailant. I think the fiend must have broken in sometime this past weekend, hiding in the intoxicating saliva of a young cosmetologist, burgling. He probably deactivated my home security system that night while the cosmetologist showed me her spirit animal - the blowfish.
I've contacted the authorities, but the suspect remains at large. Two policemen arrived at my apartment earlier today, one of them a sketch artist, and they asked me to describe the fugitive.
I couldn't help but feel the sketch artist and I were teammates in a high-stakes game of Pictionary.
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