Snot Suxxxx.

Why am I up at 4:fucking-thirty in the morning writing this when I could be totally enjoying the insides of my eyelids or some dream where I’m cooking various chicken dishes with Kristen Wiig? And, yes, I had that dream a few nights ago, and I was very unhappy to be awakened before I discovered why my favorite comedienne did not care for chicken #2. Was it overcooked? Too spicy? Too much sauce? I’ll never know. But the point is never, ever, ever to eat fried food right before bed.

Crazy culinary dreams, alas, are not my insomnia’s raison d′être this early, fucking morning. No. This time the blame goes to my cilia for not doing their goddamned job. All I ask of my tiny body hairs is that they effectively carry out their intended occupations. My eyelashes should not only keep shit out of my eyes, but they should also look long and lush and sexy, and they should not allow their Maybelline ® Great Lash mascara in Royal Blue to flake into my contacts. The cilia in my lungs should kindly sweep away any nasty-ass cigarette cancer chemicals before they taint my airways. And my nasal cilia should capture and detain any and all allergens, bacteria and viruses, allowing me to deposit them in a Kleenex ® tissue where they belong. And while I’m on the subject of tissues, let me just say that I practically keep the Kimberly-Clark Corporation afloat in the cold and flu season alone. Bitches should give me an endorsement.

But back to the catalyst for my late-night mucus-musing: my nasal passages, which are currently as swollen as Lindsay Lohan’s lips. I tried—oh, how I tried—to drift off to a peaceful slumber where Ryan Gosling in his natty, navy blue silk pajama top and cream-colored, seven-hundred-dollar slacks scrambles eggs with goat cheese in my kitchen. But every time I settled back into my memory foam pillow, this mother-fucking elephant would sit her ginormous ass right on top of my sinuses. The only upside to this mammalian suffocation is that it is impossible for one to smell elephant ass when one is being smothered. I have banished this gentle-but-perverse giant repeatedly, but apparently the shit about an elephant’s memory is all lies. She keeps coming back no matter how many decongestants and allergy tabs I throw at her. My Mount Everest of tissues doesn’t faze her a bit. She wants me to suffer, and I have no idea why since I was kind enough to save her from that brutal beating by Christoph Waltz in Water for Elephants and let that fucking vampire, Edward Cullen, take the credit. Whatever.

I am freaking sick of all of this chartreuse snot plugging my entire head and puffing up my mucus membranes and making it impossible for me to cook in my sleep with a quality celebrity. Fuck you, snot and the common cold and germy people who don’t wash their hands and then touch all the public surfaces that I must hold onto so that I won’t fall down as much. I could be having five variations of crème brûlée with Clooney right this second, dammit, and that is NOT too much to ask.