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I Am the Next Kevin McAllister

I Am the Next Kevin McAllister

I Am the Next Kevin McAllister

Today I find myself shaking hands with death.

Nay, I find death pushing me onto all fours, strapping a saddle on my back, and riding me around in dizzying circles. Doesn’t he know how important I am?!

There seems to be quite the bug floating around the office this week, we’re dropping like flies around these parts and it ain’t pretty.

I’m already wondering what the effects would be of me taking a drowsy, intended-for-overnight-use cold tablet in the middle of the day. Surely a lot of drooling. Perhaps for my lunch break I’ll concoct a sexy, vitamin-C laden cocktail of cold meds and orange juice. Or maybe I’ll go balls to the wall and just snort some generic Tylenol off the toilet seat. Because nothing screams, “Getting healthy, bitches!” like adding pink eye to the mix via co-worker, butt juice.

And no. In fact I am not auditioning for Home Alone 15. The cool sensation of my hands just feels so fucking marvelous on my face that until I breakout like a tween on the brink of puberty from all the oils, that’s where they’ll be staying.

Bear with me as I whine my way through this, kids. I’ll buy you a pony when I’m feeling better. HAY FEVER!

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