I'm kidding. No I'm not.

I'm proud o' my scrumptious misery.

You covet my sorrow like a salty snow cone.

You wish you could feel the fresh sting I feel in my chest,

the heftiness in my limbs,

the fuzzy ache in my brain muscles.

Well, you can't have any o' it.

It's mine.

I worked hard to have it,

cultivated it o'er years--

far too many for you to just swoop in like a dog-food scoop

& spoon it into your pouchy maw.

Not happenin', cap'n.

Not on this ship, Jim.

& I'm keeping it, too:

all the hornets swarming through my throat & mouth,

the dry lock on my mind as the world round my blurs into Photoshop filters,

the itchiness,

twitchiness,

hunger & bloat,

the constant yanking on all my nerve-ends...

Hold it.

This has gone on far too long.

You've seen 'nough for a day.

Goodbye.

Got to put the display case back in its model.

The door's just on the left out in the hallway.

Good day.