Somewhere, I believe some supreme being looked up, and thought: "What Protagitron really needs right now is a case of mysterious hives."
I'm beginning to think that yesterday's enigmatic bruise and today's hives are the first few salvos in a series of signs designed to make me into a 21st century prophet. Tomorrow my nose will fall off, the next day Guelph will be consumed in a storm of brimstone and ash, and after that... three more terrible things will come to pass.
And I say unto this supreme being: I am not worthy. I can barely analyze the neo-conservative undertones of Rambo: First Blood Pt. 2. These things are just making me confused and irritable. Pick some one else, O Being, you won't regret it.
The mysterious hives came after my first day of work. I'm back at the same place I'm at every summer. Today, I was weeding books from libraries. It's not a terribly difficult job. The books titled "The Indian Children of North America", or "African Conquests" with a bunch of white dudes shooting an elephant from a boat, are tossed, for example. The worst part of the job is the dust. When you handle old, unused books for a while, your hands turn black with grime and dry out, leaving one looking like a wee Cockney street urchin. Of course, these days instead of being paid a tuppence a bun, you're more likely to be beaten into submission by frenzied parents wielding a bottle of Purell.
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