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.