There are several reasons why I absolutely love Spring.. For the record, Pollonation is not among these reasons.

Today, I have  pumped out more liquid than a hydroelectric power plant. The sheer volume of mucus issued forth from my nose is staggering. I don’t know where it all comes from, so I’m beginning to think that it is channeled from somewhere else on the planet and mystically emerges from my right nostril like a bad magic trick.

Also, I could crush diamonds with the pressure in my sinuses right now. If only I could harness that raw, untapped power, I could be ruling like de Medici over half of Europe. No one would escape the iron grip of my headcold.

I think I also might smell bad, but I cannot tell because right now my odor detection is running as efficiently as the US Postal service. So not only do I smell bad, but I smell badly. I think the only solution is to obtain an ice pick and hack into my skull, sop up the superfluous fluids, and hope to Jehosephat that the procedure worked.

Coincidentally, they have a similar procedure in Thailand that they do for brain surgery. I think they bill it as "herbal."

This morning before work I took two Benadryl, thinking, "This will be a fantastic idea, because I won’t feel so miserable."

I was a bit wrong in that regard. Technically, I don’t feel congested anymore, so that is a plus. However, I have all the energy of a sloth. I’m torpid, groggly and slow-moving, and I feel like I’m on muscle relaxants.

Earlier this morning I kept walking in circles around the resturant., not because I needed anything but was so enrapt with the feeling of my legs moving. It was sweet like candy. I think my medicine may have been spiked with GHB. I was ambling through the hallways like a giant, floating, disembodied eye.

Well, a giant, floating, disembodied, itchy red eye.

But it feels great. Several times already I’ve caught myself contemplating my hands for more than a few minutes without moving. Nyquil has the same effect on me.

I’m surprised someone hasn’t concocted an alcoholic drink that mixes vodka and Nyquil. I bet it’d be a big hit in the club scene. That thing would hit like a Molotov cocktail. And if you spiked it with a twist of lemon, it’d have more bite than Mike Tyson.

I’m just glad that the Musak tracks they’ve been playing so far on the speakers above me have been pert and upbeat, because otherwise I’d crash faster than a blind pilot. Whoever compiled the Uno’s Playlist did a fine job of thinking more like a music lover and less like a data analyst.A few months ago, the music could have seriously bored plants to death. Michael Bolton was livelier than the music last year.

It was all whiny female vocalists with no beats. It sounded like a cross between Sarah McLaughlin and whale mating calls. Every day I wanted to implae myself on some rouge fork  just to make the pain stop. And I swore that if I heard one more of those business-infomercial 1980s songs like "Eye of the Tiger," Iwould drown someone in a vat of Soup.

So yes, they’ve improved. But here is my new vow – though the rest of the music may be all right, if I hear that stupid Clay Aiken song one more time, I’m going to cut off my ears and mail the grisly remains to him to show him what he’s done to me.

I hate Clay Aiken. He looks like an evil mouse with Liberace hair. And he says he’s not gay.

Clay, you haven’t dated a girl in seven years. You listen to Jon Secada - you may as well have just said Cher . And you decorated your room with butterflies. If you’re not gay, then Ruben isn’t fat.

I hate you Clay, and I hate your single. I, like the rest of America, am having a love affair with the velvet teddy-bear, and not you.

I really need to blow my nose. But wow, look at my hands. COOL!