The moral of the story is Don't let anyone see you. To be effective but discreet. Like high cholesterol. Like cancer. Like kids who shoot up their schools. A rampage takes place and a threat to the principal’s office can't compete with premeditated plans to assassinate harassing classmates. Where there are bullies, there are bullets. So little of a life there is to flash before a teenager’s eyes when facing impending death. Open your textbook and take notes. There's a science to self-concealment. Clear forecasts mock the irony of not a cloud in the sky. Even thunderstorms understand the mechanics of raining on a parade.
I'm thinking of a number between 1 and my own mortality. Guess when I die and win a prize! My CAT Scan suggests a 50/50 chance to live and, therefore, love, though I only went in for a simple flu shot. Unfortunately, the doctor’s bedside manner may be the only action I'll ever get. True or False: “tongue depressor” is an oxymoron. Physicians instruct their patients to open up their mouths and say aaaahhh in order to a form a diagnosis. But who looks after them when they become divorced, diseased, immobile on their deathbed. Hurting is universal. The square root of any man is always divisible by grief.