21. Spit all over yourself.

You’ve had this cold for what seems like months. You’re coughy. You’re phlegmy. You can’t remember the last time your nostrils were used for the purpose of breathing. You’re forgotten what food tastes like. So you can be forgiven for breaching the social faux pas of spitting in public. You’ve suffered enough, and there’s no reason all that mucus should go anywhere but into your neighbor’s hydrangea bushes.

So you hock up a really good one, all the way from the back of your throat. Its volume rivals that of the Amazon River Basin. Single-celled organisms have already begun to evolve in its primordial soup. Plus, Iits formation is also accompanied by a symphony of guttural noises that could easily be mistaken for those of a surly velociraptor. And to top off the performance, your face contorts into an arduous grimace that suggests you’ve just consumed the contents of a garbage disposal. All in all, you’re ready to spit.

You’ve never really fancied yourself an athlete, but if you were, this would be your grand slam, your touchdown, your hole-in-one, your “Connect Fooouuur!!”. You rear back, load the cannon, and release the sphere of goo into a graceful arc. It soars majestically through the air, glistening in the sun like a slimy, gelatinous zeppelin. You’d almost stand back to admire your work, if you weren’t in such a hurry. But the 2:05pm viewing of the Hannah Montana movie waits for no man.

As such, you continue walking at a brisk pace, so jazzed in anticipation of hearing the angelic voice of Miley Cyrus that you completely forget that your loogie is still in play. But it certainly hasn’t forgotten. And as luck would have it, this previously calm and wind-free day has suddenly decided to unleash gale-force gusts at the exact moment your beautiful mucus has begun its downward trajectory. It freezes mid-air, pulls a quick U-turn, and suddenly hurls itself directly at your face.

And the fun has just begun. Due to the sheer size of your oozy contribution, the surging downpour continues unabated. It drips down to your shirt, onto your shoes, even finding its way into your crotch, leaving a disconcerting stain. And the wind certainly isn’t helping matters. Its blustery surges cause the snot to spread across the entirety of your face, coating your cheeks and eventually finding a home in your hair, where it will stay for the remainder of the day. You attempt to stop all of this, of course, clawing and futilely thrashing your glutinous hands in the air, but this accomplishes nothing and only makes you further resemble a victim of the playful antics of Slimer.

So if you want to suck at life, spit all over yourself. You might no longer feel quite as endeared to your beloved loogie as you mop it out of your earlobe, but at least you now know what it feels like to be a Ghostbuster.

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