stress b gone

Speaking of new friends, I have one under my nose.

Fever blister.com. And yes, it’s the herpes B virus, infidels, before you point out the obvious.

Picked up this little friend in a sandpit or some such when I was 3. And whenever super stress mixes with low immunity, one of these guys every so often, pitches a tent on my lip, or like now, under my frigging nose.

Fuck it’s sore. The last time I had one, I started having a fling. The time before that I also started having a fling. So in some sordid and deeply twisted way, having a cold sore has been somewhat of a lucky omen in the recent past.

Interesting. Ironically uncool as well.

The fucker has gone and planted itself under my nose, much like in the picture on my Greek Schengen visa mugshot.

Pretty as an oil painting.

And not a complete and deniable fail criteria in official bureaucratic circles, when it comes to issuing visas, it would seem.
[‘You wanna go where? With what sprouting on your lip? Denied, Next.’ Just in case you have a similar predicament and were wondering.]

So these things seem to spring up overnight, and like this time, almost completely obliterate the left nostril.
After a few days, it’s kind of gone, but the impact is immeasurable.

Like yesterday. Yesterday I was stressed out of my bracket – didn’t leave my desk for more than 5 seconds – and spent much of my day solving technical issues over the telephone while typing furiously on my keyboard with one hand, and freaking out whilst doing so.

It starts to physically ache when the stress piles on. This bad boy has it's on heart beat. And yesterday was no different – WTF – except the ache started creeping up the left side of my face.

Dude. Totals.

First my mouth started aching, spreading to my gums, and then my left eye. By the end of the day, looking haggled and so forth, my left eye socket had become one of those poster boy pictures of the lazy eye. And hell it hurt.

All because of this thing under my bloody nose.

I think what I’m trying to convey here is this: I need a weekend. In a burqa. If I venture into a public arena.

So if you see a chick who is clearly not Islamic, prancing about in a bar for after work Friday drinks with a flamboyant Italian mate (The Ant), sporting a burqa around her face – and one lazy eye popping out - that would be me.

Hello. In advance.

PS: Stress kills.

PPS: 3RM, this would be a handy time to deliver my present you promised. My Mate Went To Libya And All I Got Was This Lousy Burqa.