So. Conspiracy. Yup. Conspiracy. Didn't think I'd figure it out, did ya now?
Yup.
First of all, most of my friends have fled the country. Inexplicably "out of touch", or "fallen in love with or in Norway" (dubious either way) or "touring the States and Europe with a famous rock band" or whatever... those who are not abroad claim oddities like mysterious foot ailments or "can't go kayaking because they carry the Emergency back-up phone for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs". Yeah. (isn't that supposed to be a big, red behemouth anyway?) (calling check-point Charlie?)(a banged up Nokia cell-phone just doesn't inspire confidence, even with the golden chain.)

And then... ahahah... see, it's a BIG mistery, it isn't just me being stuck in my dingy office while the rest of the staff is out cavorting in Creet (is that how you write cavorting and Creet? Probably not. So, my spelling is failing too.) or Barcelona... nope, it's the big Gaya too. The Powers That Be. God, Buddah, whoever controls things around here, Jakob Frímann or some other nefarious character.

In two weeks I have been horribly hung over, like, unusually, can't stand because of the nausea the whole day, hung over, TWICE. I've had my freaky migrane THREE times - once with the nice, new touch of PROSOPAGNOSIA. (Yup, I know big words. And I already complained about that one.)

But, wait, wait, wait... did I forget to mention my allergy, the itchy nose, the itchy, itchy, itchy nose? Itchy?

My freaky bout of exzema (who can spell that, anyway)? Leaving me looking like Mickey Rourke after a particularly nasty fight? Yes, people, I'm talking a shiner, biiiig and red, rashy kind of shiner, keep up with me here...

ohhh... and, yeees, let us not forget the unusally active ACNE...

NO, wait, wait, waaaaaaaiiiittttt for it - BLADDER INFECTION.

CONSPIRACY.
I QUIT.