I will now write a host of horrible similes for how I feel:
* like a bird shat in my head.
* like electric-green-radioactive-acid slugs are playing Chinese Fire Drill with my nose.
* like someone make pea soup, then pureed it, then let it sit in my fridge for three weeks, then warmed it up on the stove and scorched it a little, then poured it into my sinus cavities with one of those long, metal cones that monks use when making sand mandalas.
* like the people who make Nyquil have got a lot of nerve.
* like somebody took the pink underground river from Ghostbusters II and injected it behind my eyes, but when it hears music, it doesn't dance. It does that twitchy, jumpy thing that mongooses do when they see cobras. It's like Rikki Tikki Tavi is trying to fight my brain.
* like if I could just sneeze 5 more times this hour, I could break the sound barrier.
* like karma is paying me back for that 12-pack of diet Cherry Seven-Up that I accidentally stole from Target over the summer because it was under my cart and I totally forgot about it and then I was unloading the groceries into my car and it started raining and I said to myself, "Karma is going to pay me back for this, I know, MMMM this non-drink tastes DELICIOUS".
* like if I don't quit blogging and go attend to Dr. Krog, he is going to punish me.
Goodnight, dear friends. May the most poetic Asian spammers leave droplets of gossamer perve in your dreams.