Turn of the Seasons

It’s that time of year again. Again.

When the weather can’t make up its mind, when the ragweed is in full bloom.

When one’s lower jaw aches from the teeth-grinding; one’s cheeks, eye-sockets, and forehead pound with sinus pressure; when the little man with the jack-hammer on the inside of one’s cranium is making a valiant effort to escape his confines. And should the top of one’s head blow off, one would feel a million times better.

There aren’t enough tissues in the world.

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