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.
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,
hunger & bloat,
the constant yanking on all my nerve-ends...
This has gone on far too long.
You've seen 'nough for a day.
Got to put the display case back in its model.
The door's just on the left out in the hallway.