The Plague

Everyone in my office is coughing.

Could be allergies. Could be a cold. All I know is that I spend half my day applying Hand Sanitizer to every visible surface and every exposed body part and the other half trying out the shivers to see if they catch and morph into a full-fledged cold.

The trouble with being a hypochondriac is that it makes you a giant jerk. Like, someone coughs and I think, “Oh my God. STOP. STOP. You MUST STOP ARRRRGGGHHH…” instead of, I don’t know, getting them a tissue or whatever.

I’ve decided that the best thing to do is take a bunch of Benadryl and sleep until either allergy season ends or the plague moves on to the next village. Even though, as I explained to my pals at lunch today:

“Benadryl often makes me, you know…” I waved my hands in the air, to indicate jitters.

Everyone stared at me.

“Yes,” I said. “It gives me jazz hands.”

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