A quote from my orchestra teacher:
"Education originated from a Latin term that means 'to practice masochism in large groups.'"

School started two weeks ago, which means I was attacked by illness two weeks ago. Sinus infection, renal infection, and other earth shattering ailments are currently stripping life from me.
C'est la vie.

The last season of Monk started a few weeks ago. One of the newest episodes had Monk "stranded" in a random desert, looking for help because the local sheriff was shot. He embarked on his journey hesitantly, but acted dramatically ten feet away from the sheriff's resting spot. He fell to his knees and listlessly dragged his canteen to his mouth, poured out all of the water and cried, "It's all dust! I can't go on any longer!"
(or something similar)
"Go Mr. Monk, you can do it!" Natalie Teeger encouraged.
A few miles away from the sheriff and Monk's assistant, he looked as if he had been forgotten in some sort of formidable hell hole for years and lost all of his senses of reality and humanity. He was crying. Monk lifted his arms indolently, portraying his feelings of defeat, and shouted miserably into the skies, "You win, dirt!"

Four things run in my family from my father's side: a gluteus "extra" maximus, the inability to care about something important but the ability to care about something incredibly stupid, no luck but bad luck, and cowardice.
Three things run in my family from my mother's side: a fight against gravity vertically (AKA, shortness in length), clumsiness, and the ability to be really fucking insane.
Now that you've read my gene pool, you've seen me.

My current non-urine tract sickness involves my head being filled with druggies wanting to throw a 24/7 party, my sinuses punch at my face like Rocky Balboa, my nose drains carelessly into the noisome cavities of my lungs and stomach (no problem; I'm more than happy to provide the visual), and my throat swallows claws while I sleep and plays with them like a six month old kid with a jumping toy.
Thankfully, I think I'm in the final stages of this notorious encroachment. My throat has realized that it's not an intellectual move to swallow claws or mucus and is trying its best to exert the threats. This is day four of my achy exhibition, going on five, and I'm tired of fighting it. After a very painful and elongated cough, I simply dropped to my knees, lifted my arms indolently, portraying my feelings of defeat, and shouted miserably into the skies, "You win, diseases!"

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As usual, I had a fairly good reason to type this journal but I forgot.

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