It sounds: like a fun thing to get: con-junct-ivitis. Hookin’ up words and prhases and clauses. You think: I will hook up words and phrases and clauses. You think: I will become a human contraction – two things, to ideas together as one: are not? Aren’t? No. Am. You are? Indeed. You’re? Yes. Yours.
It feels: not fun. Not’un. The slang is better: Pink eye. Sounds vaguely French. Sexy, even. It is anything but. Instead of being a Van Morrison song, I am something that belongs with “… And the Brain.”
It comes on: suddenly. Today at least. Took pal to Urgent Care and after a stern lecture from the doc about contagions, after wiping down the car with a Clorox wipe, after contracting all the germs I could find, I have become a human contraction with this itis. It is. I am. It is in my eyeball-s. Plural by the time this post goes viral. Live.
I think: about calling Gregory House and hope he limps on over. I am: going to go close my eyes. Not seeing what’s around me: the cats, the sheets, the freefall of the economy. Wait for morning to come when I can scoot myself over to the urgent care center and drop yellow goopy something’isone into my eyeballs and clear up before contracting myself with T’day, S’west Airlines, and Fandamnly, when I will be giving Thanks for no longer being my favorite color.