The Illuminated Donkey

My head is a giant, red, stuffy balloon, blocking out the light of the sun, bringing sorrow and catastrophe to all those who dwell in this fourth-floor corner of the Brunswick Towers, and the wailing and gnashing of teeth could be heard on the Pulaski Skyway, even above the endless sirens and honking of horns.

In other words, I'm sick. And whiny.