I am rheumy! My eyes water, they itch, I resist the temptation to scratch at them with fingers that, let's face it, could've been anywhere. Even so, it appears I've damaged a blood vessel in my right eye, there's a bright red spot on it, just below the horizon of the lower lid, like a fiery sun that's just set, breaking the rule about not going to bed angry. The tears flow, I sniffle. I wish someone would relate a personally meaningful tale of woe, I could use my near-constant weeping to score easy sympathy points. I feel it, I just don't often look like I feel it. I need to master the well-timed head tilt, synced with the slight tightening of the lips. When I do it it tends to have a slight aspect of watching a baby elephant struggling to get back on its feet in the mud. People don't want pity, they want understanding. Since either is usually a fiction, one should try to supply what's required. Is that too cynical?

I realize this is the third time I've written about my seasonal allergy woes, but it's really been the worst year in recent memory. Sleep, forget it. I toss and wheeze, and the sighing! You know how annoying sighing is, people sigh and we truly want them dead. I know this, I've been vehemently anti-sigh for many years, believe me, and still I sigh. I need to sleep, a good night's rest. I swallow Loratadines like Lenny Bruce popping bennies onstage at the Purple Onion.

There, see how oddly I write when I feel this way?