In which your humble narrator purchases stock in Kimberly-Clark, makers of Kleenex.
The third hideous virus of the winter has laid the entire family low. In one of last night's fever-dreams, I dreamt that I died from this particularly nasty cold and went to the underworld where Charon waited in his boat to carry me across a river of snot to the far shore. I had no coin under my tongue and he wouldn't take the only thing in my pocket as payment, a booger-encrusted pacifier. Bastard.
All I'm saying is this, my (expletive) kids better shell out for a pretty (obscene gerund) nice nursing home when I'm old and feeble.
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