Head Cold Revelations. Pt.1

It is the middle of August. Seventy-nine degrees. And I have a head cold. How do these things always happen to me? I try to stay "faithful in a room full of hoes"... sorry, Kanye West is infectious. I try to stay healthy was the phrase I was looking for. I try, in spite of the damned piss-in-the-corner-instead-of-the-litter-box cat, the somehow still pollinated air, and the typical (demanding) duties of guardianship to stay healthy. Needless to say, the attempts have failed. I am instead sitting in front on my laptop with a tissue glued to my nose, a steaming mug of tea to my left, and a bottle of every cold medicine known to man to my right. I am undone. It's time to rekindle my old affair with Vick's Vapor Rub and see where it takes me. Hopefully right the fuck out of this ill-fated medicinal stupor and into a health and bliss-filled future. God willing. I think in between debilitating snorts, sneezes and sniffles, I shall try to be profound. I was reading the paper at the kitchen counter yesterday and, as in now typical, there was an article about Senator Barack Obama. They spoke about his rather diligent Secret Service detail, and the life he must now lead as a contender for highest political office of the nation. He recently vacationed with his wife Michelle and their two children in Hawaii, and it was said that the SS tried to blend in by cleverly disguising themselves as tourists in Hawaiian shirts. Of course this must have been extremely effective considering how easily they were spotted by the press. Actually I think their conspicuousness is an asset against the crazies that threaten the lives of the senator and his family. If I were an insane assassin trying to claim Obama's head, I'd see the bevy of agents and think, "Well fuck that shit..." and try again later. But of course, that's just me. I live a mere two blocks from Barack Obama. We walk past his house sometimes when we take our evening stroll. There is always one of 4 cars in the drive that leads up to the front porch with an agent seated watchfully inside. He or she always looks at every passerby as if to say "There are 45 strategically placed agents that will swoop down on you like a dog should you so much as stop to tie your shoelace." And I'm almost certain they mean it. Every once in awhile, you will see a cluster of them conversing in front of a car, looking authoritative, no doubt making plans for the Senator's safety. They are immediately silent when anyone passes by. And they watch you. Maybe not obviously, but you can feel the weight of their gaze activating your sweat glands. They surround him at every turn. Romantics dinners with his wife are romantic dinners with agent number one, two , four, seven, and 35. Not to mention the fans and political devotees who will hover as close to the table as the SS will allow hoping for a picture and an autograph. I cannot image subscribing to that kind of lifestyle. And the current reputation of the media as angry piranhas invading one's every privacy, right down to their fucking garbage can would have made it all the more important to stay out of the public eye. Someone like me who is going to school for journalism is even a little wary of media. I think about my current head-state. The throbbing, the sniffling, sneezing. The pjs. And I image looking at my pale, miserable face on the front page US Weekly with a twisted, distorted and ultimately false headline like "The Secret Life of Kayla's Coke Habit" or "The Truth About Kayla's Battle with Hep C", and I think maybe, just maybe, I might not want to be a journalist after all. There's the real revelation.

END.