The Inside of My Car Smells Like Glue & I Am Powerless Against It
I feel clenched.
Like when you wake up and your jaw is sore because you were dreaming about pounding on dipshits with fists the size of honeydew-melons, or when your shoulders tense-up because that ignoramus with the dog-whistle voice is caterwauling about the glacier of ice in her fountain-Root Beer, or when you feel like a balloon filled with thick, though viscous, liquid rage and you’re just looking for someone with a pin so you can unleash all your congealed fury, covering them with a mass of anger so thoroughly that they immediately atomize...
Maybe it’s brainsickness; maybe, and I believe this to be the case, it’s the glue. Or, at least the glue smell.
Now, I haven’t used any sort of glue since I went about attaching supposedly-sticky, sparkly stars to a birthday card in the third grade, so it’s not like I was painting indoors with no ventilation or something; I have done no work to the car, save for littering the back-seat with cardboard coffee-cups. But, there it is – The Smell.
I’m a class-A hypochondriac; if I see someone with a cast on their lower-leg, my ankle starts to hurt, which, along with some other obvious faults, makes me a complete pain in the ass. However, strange smells set my imagination ablaze with all the horrific possibilities of what they could entail...and more so if nobody else smells it.
Oh, the fun I’ve had asking complete strangers if the smell of orange-rinds is cause for alarm, or whether or not smelling pickles is a harbinger of Parkinson’s disease:
"You mean picking up a pickle and smelling it?"
"No! When the smell of 'pickle' is in the air!"
Either way, a chemical smell, or odour that is "chemical-y", evidently riles me up like an underfed...omigod.
I just threw up.
In the middle of "composing" that last analogy, I just got up, went to the kitchen sink, and hurled forth the bile from my empty stomach.
What the fuck?
Um...I’ll be right back.
All right. So, as far as I can tell, there’s something going on with my car’s air-conditioner; I jacked that thing on, and the putrid glue-like smell shot into my skin like an acupuncturist’s needles.
Well, no wonder I felt like killing nuns and eating babies; impending physical illness will make anyone a little cranky.