In the course of stumbling through the drug-hazy coma that I’m calling my workday, I just had to type into a form that someone is from a place called “Subcarpathian Voivodeship.” Subcarpathian Voivodeship, Poland. I swear I’m not making that up. In reality, I wish I COULD make up something that funny. It sounds like the sequel to Battlestar Galactica. “Battlestar Galactica: Subcarpathian Voivodeship”!!! Thus, I put a note on the form assuring the reviewing attorney that I had not made that up; that it is in fact, a real place with its own culture, traditions, spirited folk music, and maybe legalized weed.
If I’m the only one who finds Subcarpathian Voivodeship hilarious, it’s because I have a cold and am hopped up on enough Alka-Seltzer cold to kill an elephant, or at least make him hallucinate Pixar movies for a few hours. Here, as a winning example of my current mental state, is the entire body of an email I just sent to my mom:
"HAPPEH BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Your present from us is cool. What are we having for dinner tonight? I have a cold."
I’m gonna be so much fun at dinner tonight. "Happy Birthday, Mom! Sorry I sneezed on your cake and made rhinovirus the party favor."
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