Many of you have long-suspected it and now it has been confirmed: Kapooku is sick in the head.

It's my own fault. I should have bought a magnet.

Actually, it appears to be the fault of an evil, satanic plant of some sort. Probably the attractively named ragweed. Who the hell named it ragweed? I've never seen it, but you just know it has got to be the buttugliest damn plant on the face of God's green earth for someone to look at it and decide it should be called ragweed.

Anyway, I've had a stuffy nose since March, which is when I smartly decided to indulge in some over-the-counter decongestant nose sprays, which, like ragweed, are evil and from hell. Apparently over time - say, exactly 6 months - these over-the-counter sprays convert your sinuses into something the size and consistency of a large & poofy decorative pillow. It shrinks them for a while, but then your sinuses retaliate and get all, "Screw you, Kapooku!" and puff up even bigger and angrier than before and give your face the general sensation of being filled with hot concrete. More spray quiets things for a while, but as soon as it wears off you're back to the concrete and the weeping and the wishing for the sweet release of death. You repeat the cycle until the spray simply stops working and you're forced to go to the doctor, which is what you should have done back in March, you idiot.

Which is what I finally did yesterday.

"OK, Kapooku, what are your symptoms?" the nurse asks me cheerfully, getting her clipboard and pen ready.

"Well, I have secreted approximately 298 gallons of snot, yet I have miraculously not lost any weight at all which really pisses me off. When I sneeze, my right eyeball threatens to pop out of my head. I am coughing a lot, and it's that annoying, useless, dry cough that does nothing except fuck with you. I can't sleep, and if I don't get sleep soon my fiancé will leave me because I am such a miserable bitch and then I will die alone. My nose is so slammed that microscopic particles have to suck in their stomachs to maneuver my nasal passages. Oh, and I wish for the sweet release of death."

The nurse finishes writing. "Alrighty, I'll give this to..."

"Hey, you didn't write down the part about my wanting to die."

"Oh, I shouldn't write that down!" she says, chuckling nervously.

I guess that'd send up a red flag and someone would come take me away for some electroconvulsive shock therapy. Hey, if it'll open my nose, I am all for it.

So the doctor hooks me up with some stuff that so far has given me absolutely no relief whatsoever. I am still not sleeping. I pretty much hate everyone and everything, especially ragweed, and if I ever spot a ragweed I am going to run over and smash it with my feet while I cuss enthusiastically, except it'll come out all, "Fookin Wagweegh! I hath ooo, fookin stoopith goddam pwant! Mwa gmumah flith moofin booshgim!" because my nose will still be swollen shut.

And, I am still not much in the mood for writing, which is why I have inflicted this essay about snot on you. Hey, it's better than nothing. Now leave me alone before I shoot my eyeball at you.

~ September 8, 2004