So me and my pal Marc have this theory that there’s a Simpson’s quote for every occasion. But that’s neither here not there, because I’m dying.
Perhaps I should explain. I suffer from hypochondria (self-diagnosed, which I feel proves my diagnosis.) and a severe case of melodrama. As a result, when I ate my sammich on Monday (peanut butter and fluff, in case you were wondering) I instantly felt as if my death was a foregone conclusion. See, the bread I used had a sell by date of the 7th. And Monday was the 8th. I now share a fate with the old woman the swallowed the fly. I mean, sure the bread didn’t have visible mold on it, and it smelt fine, but that doesn’t mean anything.
Especially considering the fact that I can feel the spores growing in my lungs.
No really, ask my husband. I e-mailed him right away telling him I was going to die from some common and non-exotic (as opposed to rare and exotic) mold and it would probably be his fault.
Since he hadn’t done the laundry yet.
What? It’s related.
Okay … I don’t actually believe I’m dying. Sure, I did feel a bit odd after eating the sammich, but that probably had more to do with the migraine that I got Monday night and kept me in bed all day Tuesday than any actual spores. I’m not that crazy.
Unless the bread is what caused my migraine.
What are the symptoms of ergot poisoning again?