I started doing acupuncture again this week, in yet another boring effort to deal with my insomnia. The acupuncture lady came to my house, and we sat down before our session to talk about my medical history. When she asked me what my “chief complaint” was, I felt like Brando in The Wild One: Whaddya got? My tough-guy impersonation didn’t last long, and soon after, I burst into tears, as I often do when talking to medical professionals looking for concrete explanations to a problem that’s plagued me since I was 11 years old.
The Chinese herbs she put me on arrived today by UPS. I ripped open the box, mistaking it for the rhinestone brooch I recently won on eBay (I’m really into old lady-jewelry at the moment). Instead, I got this:
Why didn’t the makers of these herbs just call them Ching-Chong McChinkery Golden Lucky Double-Happy Sleepy Dragon Pills?
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