"We need to quarantine you in the corner office."

I woke up this morning and just knew today was going to be hell. Headache, stuffy nose, fatigue, bad hair, and spoiled lunch meat sums up today's pre-9 am festivities. The minute my common cold became evident, my coworkers turned on me. I became a social outcast. The dirty looks every time I blew my nose and it sounded like starting a car with a dead battery. The growing pile of industrial napkins used as Kleenex, giving me that raw redness around my nose. The constant sniffling, like a little bitch. I'm a walking infection.

I get so overdramatic when I'm ill. I'll go to CVS and buy a shitload of medicine. I swear, I have three different bags of cough drops and about five remedies for cankersores. It's what I fill the junk drawer in my kitchen. I love how everyone has a junk drawer in the kitchen, full of lonely pills, twist-ties, those blue rubber bands from bunches of green onions, coins, and the crappy pens.

Other various thoughts running through my congested mind:

• I'm losing so much face fat and I'm not doing anything. SCORE.
• For nose blowing, napkins:toilet paper:Kleenex :: poor:middle-class/Korean:white.
• Do I still snore if my nose is stuffed up? Is that even possible?
• My voice = sexy
  
• Home sweet home = farting, burping, and blowing my nose in peace.
  

Junk Mail

Nestled between the credit card offers, pizza advertisements, and health insurance newsletter, laid a symbol of adulthood: a 1040EZ form. And two letters from Geico.

Getting the form intimidates me. Being sent the form flatters me. Reading the form confuses me. Owning the form worries me. Why do they call it 1040EZ? Is it really that easy? Then why are there 40 pages? What happens if I miscalculate? Do I end up paying double? Wait do I even pay anything? They already have all my money. Do I get money back? Suddenly, I'm very excited.

I'll keep this packet on my coffee table. It will serve as a makeshift trivet, coaster, insect swatter. And when the time comes, I'll unfurl the form and blow the dust off my calculator to officially conclude that I need more money. My life as an adult will begin with a solemn pledge of allegiance: a five-year plan that hoards money for, not one or even two, but a week of rainy, stormy days. And then, I'll feel like an adult.

Oy vey, I'm so Jewish

I've been clipping coupons for the past few months. It's something I could have adopted only from my mother. It is currently Saturday night, and she is watching Korean dramas on VHS whilst slicing and dicing the coupon insert of the Early Sunday edition of The Dallas Morning News. Her spoils span the entire width of our coffee table, which by the way is old, scratched up, and wobbly--always in the true spirit of frugality.

My collection wanes in comparison to hers but I have compiled a hefty envelope that could save me upwards of....$10. Rather, I should say I had this envelope, until I lost it.

When applied correctly, the concept of loss is mystifying. It's almost as if the coupons have fallen into a third dimension, never to be seen again. Somewhere, my 45 cents off Bertoli Olive Oil is drifting aimlessly between universes. That $1 I could have saved on Clorox will die this coming Friday, it's expiration date.

Damn. That's tragic.

Those coupons were cut short--a fitting adieu. Saiyonara.