I Can't See The Forest

Juice Cleansing Has Been All The Rage For Some Time. And I Used The Word 'rage' Advisedly; One Must Push A Violent Flood Of Liquidised Vegetables And Fruit Through One's System For At Least Three Days In Order To Perform A 'cleanse.'

Because This Is The Beauty Of Strangers: We're All Just Doing Our Best To Help Each Other Out, Motivated Not By Karma But By A Natural Instinct To Help The Greater Whole.

When I Was Nine Years Old, I Wrote A Short Story Called 'how To Build A Snowman,' From Which No Practical Snowperson-crafting Techniques Could Be Gleaned. The Story Was An Assignment For Class And It Featured A Series Of Careful But Meaningless Instructions. Of Course, The Building Of The Snowman Was A Red Herring.

I Used To Think That Nails-down-a-chalkboard Was The Worst Sound In The World. Then I Moved On To People-eating-cereal-on-the-phone. But Only This Week Did I Stumble Across The Rightful Winner: It's The Sound Of A Baggage Carousel Coming To A Grinding Halt, Having Reunited Every Passenger On Your Flight With Their Luggage, Except For You.

But Now My Problems Had Been Set Loose. They Could Be Anywhere At Any Time And I Was Just Like Everyone Else I Knew: Almost Positive That There Was Something Profoundly And Undiagnosably Wrong With Me.