Thursday, March 27, 2008

How I Continue to Confuse Myself.

Fisherman's Friend is a throat lozenge with capsicum in it. You know, that stuff I couldn't be in the same room with from August of 2004 until about two months ago but now helps me speak? I'm mutating.

I bought the last package of extra strong original formula at the Rite-Aid near the 99¢ store. They worked great! They worked so great I was able to string together a particularly nasty set of compound nouns at the intersection ten feet from my driveway. With any luck my neighbors still think I have no voice, and so couldn't possibly have said what I said to the car behind me as it scared me into oncoming traffic. I hate driving where other people also drive. Have you seen No Country For Old Men yet? That scene at the end is not leaving what's left of my mind so easy.

Unfortunately, Fisherman's Friend also comes in a low sugar, cherry-flavored version that has no capsicum, no sugar, but aspartame. So the extra packages that my Mum found in the other Rite-Aid? No help for the voice and I'm just a little more brainless. I think that may be the plan.

PEZ distributes Fisherman's Friend, and while I highly recommend the original version, I'm planning to hold a grudge against the three bucks I lost to the candy-flavored chemical cocktail Rite-Aid foisted on my mother and aunt. At least until I forget, which should be any minute now.

I wish I could forget the feeling that I'm about to be broadsided by an 18-wheeler. It's annoying. Especially when I'm parked in front of the bank, minding my own business, enjoying the view of the blooming hedges, and an 18-wheeler comes off the highway and blows its horn at me. Those things, they've not got drivers, you know, they just travel around renegade, looking for victims. I'm sure if it had a driver the truck would not have needed to blow its horn at I could do anything about getting out of the way.

I didn't really feel like dying on Nan's birthday, either. I mean, generally people tend to either die or come pretty close to it on her birthday, and the previous night's mouse incident was bad enough, but there's nothing that makes me realize my emo tendencies are crap faster than trying to cross the street in the same general piece.

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