Funiture Polish Poisoning

I arri­ved home to find the place ree­king of an unk­nown scary che­mi­cal smell my hou­se­mate assu­red me was only a really expen­sive bees­wax fur­ni­ture polish meant to “create las­ting natu­ral beauty from within”. Within fif­teen minu­tes the fee­ling of star­va­tion which accom­pa­nies me home most eve­nings was repla­ced with nau­sea, and I could feel a hea­dache coming on. My typi­cal sche­dule was dis­rup­ted as I had to lay down, cau­sing me to lis­ten to Chris Matthews explain his last night’s utte­rance of “Oh God” as Jin­dal, begin­ning his coun­ter punch pre­sen­ta­tion, wal­ked out of the reces­ses of some dark foyer of what loo­ked like a stage set for Gone With the Wind. I dis­like Chris Matthews, but wasn’t the whole country saying “Oh God”? Of course they were. Such bad thea­ter it was.

My hou­se­mate then came to my room, because it is odd for me to be laying on the bed so early in the eve­ning, to ask me if I was alright. I told her I had a hea­dache and was just going to rest. She then tells me I might be get­ting the flu, that two tee­na­gers died of it in our area just this past week, and that I should take care and if I get any sic­ker to call the doc­tor. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the only thing wrong with me was bees­wax fur­ni­ture polish over­dose. I then imme­dia­tely feel dead asleep only to waken to the end of an epi­sode of Big Love, and Arlo Guth­rie sin­ging City of New Orleans.

I am only now catching up on the hours of work mis­sed due to unsche­du­led sleep. My head is still poun­ding, but I’m hungry, so I’m pretty sure I’ve sur­vi­ved this epi­sode of “finish fee­der” (oh yea that is the name of her polish) poisoning.

I’ll be back around tomo­rrow when the brain stop pul­sa­ting and the fuzz starts to clear.

And oh yeah,

Fuck Finish Feeder

Peace

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