Minchin Monday and Florescent Nausea

To hell with it all.

We need to laugh.

Here’s Tim. Tim makes me laugh even when I want to vomit.

Okay.

Now that we’ve all had a giggle, here’s a fun fact about me.

I have lived in the same house for 11 years this February.

Eleven.

Years.

4,015 days.

That’s a long ass time.

This past weekend, all four of the bulbs in my bedroom ceiling fan burned out within days of one another.

I’m talking about the four original bulbs that were in that damn fan on the day I moved in.

That is how much I hate overhead lighting. Even the old-timey incandescent kind that it’s becoming so very hard to come by these days, which is a god damned tragedy, if you ask me, which you didn’t.

I don’t have an option at work. The infernal building is filled with florescent tubes that have all just been replaced so they’re on full blast, drilling down into my face and brain stem like irradiated waves of hell incarnate.

So I’m currently working on a nausea station at my desk.

I can’t describe it. Weirdly, when half of the tubes were burned out or flickering like the bare bulbs in the ceiling of an abandoned slaughterhouse where human beings are murdered by psychopathic serial killers for sport, I felt better.

Now that they’re all on full blast I’m sick. Every day. It’s like the world’s worst headache attached to the world’s worst motion sickness for eight hours a day. It’s awful.

I’m going to have ginger ale, nauzene, and peppermint tea at the ready starting tomorrow.

I will get through this.

Or, I will die.

Remains to be seen, really.

I’m not putting my money on either yet. It’s too soon to tell where the smart money is going.

Alright.

That’s all I’ve got today, my little droogies.

Mwah.

 

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