Today, I am convinced that Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus (maybe Dostoevsky, too) must have had permanent colds.
I never get sick, but, every two years or so, when I do run head-first into a sudden and incapacitating head cold, I believe I stumble upon the true origins of existential philosophy.
I deserve this.
Just this week, I was chastising an eternally-outraged acquaintance... oh, I NEVER get sick, because the great-big-giant ME eats fresh, non-GMO-bastardized apples and runs miles at altitude every day, without fail, even when it's snowing...
I hate myself.
I hate myself even worse than usual today.
