Meet the latest visitor to my body:
He takes up residence in your throat and puts you through agony every time you want to send something his way. He’s visited virtually everyone, mostly in childhood years, but somehow I managed to avoid him until I was 24 years old.
How did he get there? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because every one of my co-worker’s desks have looked like this for the past week:
Or maybe it’s because I was too drunk to remember making out with someone on Saturday night:
Most likely, it came from some whiny little brat out in public:
So, to whomever is responsible for giving me strep throat, thanks. From now on, I should just walk around New York City like this:
Except the skirt. I could go without the skirt.